


Fall Into Oblivion

by Kako



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: M/M, Novelization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kako/pseuds/Kako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Mortal Akatosh." He had only wanted to become their hero, and more than that, Martin's hero. But the victory over the Oblivion Crisis came at a great cost, and with the last Septim dead, the hero of Kvatch finds himself becoming something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into The Night

The Imperial City, in all its might, was the very core of Cyrodiil.

It stood amongst large grassy plains and was surrounded by deep forests, south of the Bruma's snow-capped mountains and north of Leyawiin's marshes. Walls of gleaming marble protected its towers, structures that breached the heavens in their vast height. Many roads sprawled out from the city and stretched over the country's length, but each Imperial trail lead back to the same place.

During the day, as the White-Gold tower glimmered in the bright sun, the market district was full of bustling men and mer alike. Traders from distant holds traveled to see what the city had to offer, and none ever left disappointed. Ponds sprinkled with sacred lotus blossoms sat on either side of big oak doors that many entered through each day, and the cheers from the arena could be heard throughout each district. The waterfront was home to shabby little shacks sitting alongside Lake Rumare, the same body of water bringing ships to the city's port. It was the place all in Tamriel aspired to come to one day.

And yet, at night, it was different.

Not many strayed out when the sun blurred into the horizon and let the twin moons take its place. Only by torchlight and by the stars above did the guards see, and it was only them that walked through the streets to make their rounds. Each shop closed as did the houses in the residential districts, beggars retreating to their corners in the dark as the thieves came from the shadows to conduct their business. And amongst all those souls still out, none were more alone then their hero.

The Temple of the One was an almost historic place, now, as revered and holy as it was broken. The temple district as a whole was an area of destruction, with crumbling ruins of houses now gone and crater-marked streets stained with burn marks and dried blood. At the center of it was the Temple itself, the side of its circular wall blasted away, its ceiling long gone and instead opened to the boundless skies.

Many avoided this building, and many more came to Cyrodiil solely with the intention to see it. It held the last traces of the Septim bloodline, all for the statue that stood tall in its walls. The stone figure was shaped in the likeliness of a dragon, marking the forever frozen form of Martin Septim as he won his victory over Mehrunes Dagon. The dead heir had left the world with a story they would never forget, and he had left it as a hero, Akatosh thought, that went unmatched by any of the other saviors Nirn had before.

The hero of Kvatch stood in his best friend's shadow, a shadow barely seen in the night that enclosed him. He was a small thing, even for a Breton, neck craned in an attempt to see the statue in all its glory and failing just the same. Akatosh pushed away the horror wrapping around his pounding heart, pushed away the feeling of pure _loss_ , and only allowed himself this moment of serenity away from his thoughts.

His seclusion from the heavy contemplation that had plagued him for weeks was interrupted with the sound of footsteps. They approached him from behind and Akatosh turned, eyeing the guard as he came through the creaky wooden door. It was rather unnecessary, the Breton thought, glancing at the gap in the Temple where its wall used to be, but each to his own he supposed.

"What?" He spoke before the knight could, tone conveying annoyance and slight exasperation. "Please leave me."

The knight's attire clung loudly in his ears as he attempted a bow. "Forgive my intrusion, Champion, but you have been here for hours." Akatosh blinked.

"And?"

The taller man shifted uneasily. "I see." He seemed uncomfortable. "I'll let you be-"

"No," Akatosh interrupted, taking pity. "You're right." He had traded his usual Kvatch armor in for leather pants and a ragged olive shirt, cold air snipping at his exposed arms. There wasn't any point in standing out here and freezing to death. He sighed. "What's your name?"

He saw confusion dawn on the man's features, face barely seen through the empty spaces in his Imperial guard helmet. "My name?" He repeated, and Akatosh nodded. "Prentus. Gaius Prentus."

The hero scuffed his fur boots against the ground. "Could you take me to the armory, Gaius?" The solider hesitated.

"Why would you need to go there at this time?" Akatosh thought about it slightly.

"I have something to pick up," he decided on. "Chancellor Ocato has given me clearance, although I am sorry for the bad timing. You can check with him if you would want." It was an empty question, of course. Nobody with a bit of sense in them would dare wake Ocato to deal with matters this trifling.

As it seemed, Gaius shared that common knowledge. "There's no need. I'll direct you there immediately." The man didn't wait for some sign of affirmation, turning on his heel and gesturing for Akatosh to follow. They went through the same creaky door, and the hero of Kvatch forced himself not to look back as he left the Temple.

They weaved through the empty sidewalks and passed through several doors, arriving at the prison district. He dared not to speak a word as they strolled through empty cages, and Gaius stopped him at a building at the end.

"This would be it," he presented. "Do you need anything else, Champion?"

"I'm fine," he promised, quickly taking it back. "Actually, I would appreciate it if you dropped the title."

Gaius grunted. "Title?"

"You'll figure it out." Akatosh's hand strayed on the doorknob. "I'm not your champion, Prentus." He didn't let the guard get a word in, opening the unlocked door and shutting it swiftly. The moment's reprieve from humanity was taken gratefully, armory empty of any other life besides his own. It was dark, torch by the door long since died, and he lit it with a flame that dance around his fingers before dying.

Akatosh looked around at the Imperial armory. It was stocked with shiny stacks of armor set on long oak tables, a variety of iron and steel weapons hanging on different racks. Shields bearing a strange dragon-like symbol were displayed on the walls for taking, which he didn't. He came here for something specific, after all.

The Breton walked past the tables, eyes scanning each set and dismissing them just as quickly. He arrived at a desk at the very back of the room, mouth falling open slightly at the sight.

He breathed out a word of wonder in the daedric tongue, shocked. A glimmering chestplate made of pure gold and engraved with silver patterns was laid down along with matching greaves, boots stacked on the wooden floor to go with the arrangement. He ran a calloused hand over the cuirass, and his chin trembled. It looked exactly like the one Martin had worn to battle.

Akatosh felt sick. This was supposed to be an honor. It all was. The custom-made armor, the title only given to six before him, the applause and admiration from all he saw. It was supposed to be something right out of a dream, a kind of fame many aspired to have one day. And he hated it.

He had watched the emperor die. He had been the reason the enemy had gotten the amulet. He had traveled to the corners of the country, to every hold in Cyrodiil, and had seen the dark secrets they held behind their walls. He had gone into places that were the things of nightmares, had fought in battles he still remembered clear as day. He had buried his closest friends when they died, all except one, who now stood as a hundred foot statue for tourists to gape at all day. He was a weak, amnesiac prisoner who had been shoved into an Oblivion gate, and that wasn't deserving of any praise.

Akatosh wasn't a hero. A hero didn't let everyone they knew die. A hero didn't speak in the language of monsters. The only heroes he had known were now gone, and if he was the only one left, the scribe for the world's fate, then he may as well end it all.

The Breton frowned, picking up the cuirass with shaky hands. He forced himself to calm as he held the expensive piece, and although it looked heavy in truth it felt light. He couldn't ever imagine prancing around in something this flashy, no matter the enchantments he could feel stirring in the metal.

He laid it gently back on the table, making to leave, but the helmet that matched the set caught his eye. It wasn't encrusted with silver like the others, surface a stunning gold. He could see his blurred reflection through the headwear, see the distorted outline of his face and the dark brown color of his irises staring back at him. It would have fit his Septim friend perfectly.

Considering, the hero gave into the small temptation, tucking it under his arm. Satisfied, he backed away from the rest of his so-called reward, and let himself out.

* * *

He kneeled in the fresh soil, dirt rubbing off on his leather greaves. Akatosh ran his fingers over the pulsing red scar in the earth, tracing the outline of daedric metal embedded in the ground. His horse whinnied nervously, but he paid it no mind, wearing a heavy frown.

It sparked a few times before the glow died out, and he watched until it was gone. Akatosh stood, brushing off his armor. He had been riding through a forest in the Jerall mountains before coming across the remnants of a closed Oblivion gate. It had happened quite a lot, lately, hundreds of them now ruins that dotted Cyrodiil's vast size. Most avoided them out of disgust, but he wasn't like the rest of his people.

The hero mounted his chestnut horse swiftly, turning back the other way. Snow crunched under his steed's hooves, leaving imprints in the dusting of white. There was always a purpose to where he went, and this time was just the same.

They came upon the shrine after another hour, light spreading across the night sky and hiding away its stars. The moons were starting to sink against the weight of dawn as he came to a stop, sliding off his saddle, and his iron boots thudded as they hit the dirt.

The statue was of the daedric Prince of dusk and dawn, Her stone form carved in a flowing dress and two hands holding a crescent moon and a star respectively. One Dunmer stood at a wooden stand and two others on a set of benches, all of them facing towards the Breton.

He nodded in greeting, striding evenly to the statue. The Dark Elf presumedly speaking opened his mouth. "Excuse me-"

"No." He left it at that, opening the bag at his hip. At the sight of the glowing sands inside the mer let him be, seeing the offering already prepared. Akatosh was given room to kneel, grabbing a fistful of the glow dust and throwing it at the statue's pedestal. It shimmered in the air and disappeared before it hit, and he heard a gasp behind him.

The three worshippers abandoned their places altogether, knowing when their Lady had chosen someone to speak to. He thought dimly back to the shrine of Sanguine, of the sultry looks he had received from the Prince's slutty followers, and found the respect rather pleasant.

"Lady Azura," he called, voice loud in the sudden quiet. "I ask for Your favor and guidance." He wondered briefly as he waited if he had gotten the ritual right, but ceased he speculation as he felt Her presence.

While Sanguine was a force that forced itself into his mind and buried itself in every crevice of his body and soul, Azura was a sweet blessing that gently dawned in the deepest reaches of his subconscious. She was barely there, he felt, but Her voice was a loud blare that left his head spinning.

" _I hear you, traveler_ ," She spoke. " _I have seen your name, I have heard it whispered in twilight. I know what you seek, and will give you My gift in exchange of service_."

Akatosh let his eyes slip close. He knew it was not his time to speak, but merely listen and be spoken to. " _Many years ago_ ," She continued, " _Five of My followers slew the vampire Dratik and its kin, but all were infected by the foul creature. Knowing their fate, they sealed themselves in the vampire's lair. Their suffering weighs heavily on Me_."

He felt a shred of regret that was not his own coil around his heart. " _Travel to the gutted mine north of here. The door will open for you. Bring the peace of death to My followers, and I will grant you My gratitude_." He nodded, a small jerk of his head, and then She was gone.

Akatosh didn't bother wasting time as the Prince let him be. He rose from his deep bow, heeding Her directions and heading north up the mountain. The crisp air cut through his thin armor and numbed his bones, making the tips of his bare fingers tingle at the temperature, and he would have lit a fire in his hands if not for his stunted Magicka. He had a feeling Azura wouldn't have directed him very far, leaving his horse behind for the travel, and found himself relieved as he spotted a trail along the side of the hill.

Akatosh only had to keep his pace for a few minutes, trail cutting through the worst of the climbing. The top of the cave he sought came into his sights quickly enough, and he grinned a small thing to himself. He stepped off the path and wove his way through a clutter of rocks, being weary of the slippery grounds so near to the side of the hill, and resisted envisioning falling over the edge.

The cavern was a lump of boulders at the end of his trail. Sure enough, the door to the mine gave at his touch, nearly crumbling away on its hinges. It was dark inside, the bare light of slowly coming day not giving much insight to the dangers that lay ahead.

With an intake of breath and a shrug, he went in. Akatosh stepped silently through the cave, hand braced against the wall incase he slipped down the slope of the entrance. His foot made contact with a hidden string of rope below, pointed ears hearing the click of metal, and he cursed loudly as he dropped to the ground just in time. A mace swung into the space where his head had been a second before, leaving him shocked and all the more thankful.

As much as it was a lucky save it hadn't been a silent one, and he was made more aware of this fact by the sudden battle cry. Akatosh countered the sword coming down on his head with a strike of lightning from his palm, the burst of adrenaline that rose in his chest giving strength to his Magicks. The opposing Nord woman dodged the spell almost gracefully, orange-tinted eyes glinting threateningly at him in the dark.

He stood quickly, his opponent observing his every move. Akatosh couldn't recall if he had fought a vampire before, and had his bad memory to thank for it. He did know they were cunning opponents, out-matching regular mortals in both strength and speed. The Breton furrowed his eyebrows, attempting to reach for the katana at his waist, but the Nord growled at him and lunged.

He yelped as the tip of her sword grazed along his Kvatch cuirass, cutting into the fabric. Akatosh glared. The armor was dear to him, a gift from the Kvatch captain guard himself, and he would like to keep it intact. She didn't allow him any rest, coming forward again, and he tried a different approach.

Bright light flowed from his fingertips in the way of fire, giving brightness to the dark cavern. The vampire hesitated in her strike and he took advantage, flinging the fire ball at her face. She screamed and he jumped at her, putting his full weight into the tackle, and they fell.

He felt the edge of a rock dig into his left arm, penetrating the leather covering and drawing blood. Ignoring the slight prickle of pain, Akatosh poured more flames from his hands to his enemy's form, letting it incase her body. He sprang back quickly from the burning woman, waiting until the screams died as her soul did, and felt the burden of remorse fall on his shoulders.

He would have killed her less painfully if he had known how. Akatosh doused the flames with a wave of frost, bowing his head in repentance. The hero whispered an apology to the Nord, lips moving almost soundlessly in the chant.

He finished it off, giving the mangled corpse one last look of regret. Akatosh steeled himself from his self-disgust, instead forcing himself forward and deeper into possible death.

* * *

The Arcane University was an enigma only the greatest of mages could solve. Its best sights were locked behind stone gates, and although the curiosity burned holes inside his soul, he paid it no mind and carried on through the small island.

Pedestals burning with bright magenta flames gave the night a dark purple glow, lighting the steps for his benefit as he mounted them. The tower to the university rose into the midnight sky, the very top of it outlined in the combined brightness of Secunda and Masser.

He entered through the main door, warmness of the lounge washing over his skin. Akatosh's eyes scanned over the room. Bookshelves lined with hundreds of times lined the walls, desks topped with alchemy tools and crystal globes, quills set aside with every parchment scroll. A chandelier of candles hung above his head, floor carved with symbols that glowed brightly, and he knew by standing on them one would be teleported elsewhere.

His buckled shoes stepped lightly on the rugs beneath, sitting down on one of the two benches. Akatosh looked at the other dwindling person in the room, and the mage smiled at him kindly.

"It is good that you came back unharmed," Tar-Meena greeted, pupil-less eyes blinking at him like onyx orbs. "I was worried."

"It's good to be back." He swung his large bag onto his lap, unsealing it swiftly. Akatosh's fingers pulled out the glimmering star of dawn and dusk's Queen, and it shone like any other star in the sky, if not brighter.

The Argonian gasped. "It's magnificent," she breathed, and he slipped it back inside. The shorter handed her his bag, and she took it hesitantly. "Did anyone see you carrying this?"

"None," he promised. "But it should hardly matter. Out of all the Princes, Azura is the one more loved than feared."

"I agree," Tar-Meena replied. "But my fellow mages may not be so knowledgable. Using daedric artifacts, although not forbidden, is very much unheard of and no doubt frowned upon."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he reassured. She reluctantly nodded, but he could tell she was thrilled at the prospect of his gift. "Please, allow me to pay you, Akatosh."

He shook his head, standing, and she watched. "There's no need," he objected. "You helped me before. I'm simply repaying the debt." Akatosh's voice grew slightly weak at the last few words, giving a nasty cough. Tar-Meena looked at him worriedly.

"Are you well?" She questioned. "Do you need some water?" He denied with a wave of his hand.

"I must have picked up something on my way back," the hero dismissed in only slightly wavering tones. "I just need some rest." Tar-Meena nodded in agreement.

"I won't keep you waiting, then," she said, standing as well, and the vibrant scales running along the length of her tail shimmered in the candlelight. "Goodnight, my friend."

"And you," Akatosh bid. "May the Divines watch over you." And as he left, he pondered on why exactly the words sounded quite so sour on his tongue.


	2. Broken Things Like Broken Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I thought Riften was the city of thieves. (Follows NOTHING bwahahahahaha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this up yesterday, but hopefully the 3.8K word count is enough to forgive. Next chapter will be up soon!

Anvil was a peninsula jutting out from Cyrodiil and all her awe, made of precious stone crafted in elegant buildings and built with a hardy docks shaped between rushing ocean waters. The Chapel of Dibella was a glorious one as all the other chapels but holding its separate kind of beauty, the beauty in the blooming flower gardens around each central pillar on Anvil's streets and in the fiery lighthouse flames that guided sailors to shore. It was a hold of magnificence and well-earned pride in the glory within its walls.

Akatosh could recount when he had first traveled to the city to close the threatening gate of fire standing outside its entrance, as it was with all the other towns. It was him alone that kept the Oblivion invasion at bay, he who prevented other towns from being snuffed out by the fury of the Deadlands as had happened with Kvatch. And for such a great hero, he was a lonely one, too.

But Anvil, crest of the Gold Coast and bracer of the Abecean Sea, was a place worth the long travel from the Imperial City. Of course, he had been here numerous times after the Oblivion Crisis, as he had all the other holds and small villages along the roads. However, it was this town he enjoyed coming back to the most.

It was the near evening when he dismounted from his chestnut horse at the town stables. Rain was pouring overhead in the midst of a thick storm, making his light clothes stick to his skin and brown hair that appeared black in its dampness plaster onto his forehead. He tied his horse securely under the stable's roof and headed to the front door, nodding at the guard that opened it for him.

Anvil's entrance closed at his back, walls completely enveloping him from the rest of Tamriel, as he liked to imagine. The stone barriers made around each house and inn and little building were a symbolism of protection, and for the Breton himself, they protected him from his sorrow. As much as it was pleasurable to travel the open world it only reminded him of seclusion and times when he was not.

He hurried through the rain and along the cobblestone trail, finding the inn he knew to be by the east. The only thing to tell the Count's Arms apart from the other marble buildings was its small wooden sign, flapping in the occasional harsh gust of wind. He pushed open the intricate turquoise door and felt it slam with one such breeze behind him, warmth flooding into his bones.

The room was too loud and full to notice his arrival, for which he was grateful for. Akatosh made his way around the tables and to the counter of the large upper class drinking establishment, made dark by the curtains covering tall windows and bright by the glowing array of candles and stoked fire in the dining area. The air tasted of smoke and smelled of rich spices and cooking meat, making his mouth water at the prospect.

He took a free seat at the empty counter, opposite to the filled tables around the inn. A tall Redguard in red velvet attire hurried over to his spot, dark eyes glimmering in the dim lighting.

"What can I get you for?" The man asked, voice rumbly. Akatosh ordered off the top of his head, deciding to steer clear of the alcohol. Hangovers weren't any good to an adventurer that never settled for a day. The Redguard, Wilbur, smiled curtly and went to get his food.

Akatosh was left in a comfortable silence, surrounded by a thick buzz of noise, before the stool next to him screeched along the floor. He glanced over at the man taking the seat, curious and only partially annoyed. It was too dark to see properly but he could make out the profile of an Imperial, hair pulled back into a low ponytail and features otherwise obscured.

The Imperial took no notice of him, and Akatosh simply decided to keep his eyes to himself. Wilbur came back with his glass mug of water, glancing at the stranger. The man took his order in a startling rich voice, naming some wine the hero didn't recognize, but he seemed to please Wilbur enough with his knowledge as the barkeeper bounded away.

The Imperial finally turned to him. Akatosh still couldn't see the man's face, but those shadow-veiled eyes didn't seem to share the problem. "You seem familiar," was the greeting, different from the praises he had grown accustomed to.

On any other night, Akatosh would have shrugged and moved away. With any other person, the short elf wouldn't have cared. But this mystery man held an air about him that made Akatosh want to speak. "In what way?" He asked.

"You're someone I've seen but never spoken to," the Imperial replied after a moment's thought. "Some dashing hero, I'm sure."

He felt strangely flattered at the remark, tinged with sarcasm as it was. "I closed the Oblivion Gate at Kvatch."

"Really?" His voice conveyed more amusement than surprise. "You're the one who went inside the Deadlands?" The man really was knowledgable, if he knew that tidbit of information so many others didn't. "Not only the one at Kvatch, though, was it? They say you fought in the battle of Bruma, saved the ruins of Kvatch and all our other holds, was there to witness Mehrunes Dagon as he invaded the Imperial City- well, to be honest, I imagined you'd be taller."

Up until that point his cheeks had grown steadily more red. The heat on his face stayed with him, even as Akatosh took a gulp of water. "That's not very nice." The liquid was warm, and he cooled it gently with a light fuzz of frosted Magicks that seeped through his palm.

"And you're not very impressive," the stranger retorted. The Breton didn't mind the insult as much as he should have. Really, it was better than the pointless praises he had received. He preferred to be treated like a normal person, not like a god, and definitely not when he had failed those he cared for in his incompetence.

Akatosh was fine with this.

Wilbur came back with his plate of delicately laid fruits and cheeses, along with a brilliant dark wine that glimmered in its fragile glass encasement. Akatosh reached for the bag at his hip, enchanted at the Arcane University just two days ago to hold an infinite amount of items like the one he had found in the Imperial Prison. He meant to pull out some septims but found himself being waved off, the man placing the golden coins in Wilbur's hand to cover both their meals.

The owner of the inn let them be, Akatosh glancing at the other man. "You didn't have to do that." And then, hastily, as to not seem ungrateful, "But thank you."

"My pleasure." He took a sip of his wine, Akatosh starting to eat at his food. "So, Champion, I don't suppose you have a name?"

Sure he did, but it wasn't like he knew it. As for his other name, the Breton had found he didn't care for the dragon god nearly as much as his best friend had before, not after said Divine and all the other eight of them left him to this fate. Lead Martin to his fate. He kept the name "Akatosh" out of love for the deceased Septim, but he didn't like it.

"Everyone does," he said. "Don't you?"

Akatosh imagined a delicately raised eyebrow to go along with the nonchalant tone. "You have a good point," was the reply, "but I guess you needn't know mine if you are to deprive me of the same pleasure." Another sip. "If you won't tell me what you're called, perhaps you can share why you're here? Shouldn't you, oh, I don't know, be up there with the Chancellor or trying to take a spot as Emperor?"

His eyes widened. "I can't just do that. Nobody can do that."

"Why not?" Akatosh put down the stem of his strawberry. "There's no more Septims to take the throne, if I am understanding this all correctly. Our mighty Champion should surely get the honor of replacing-"

"It just doesn't happen," he snapped. "And I wouldn't want it to." The Imperial didn't say anything, and he found himself embarrassed at the rude interruption. Akatosh let the silence seep in for only a moment. "I'm just here because it was the next place to go on my map," he answered. "Ever since the Crisis ended, I've been exploring all of Cyrodiil. Traveling the countryside, helping people." He had made himself a proper hero, giving aid to all in need the ways the remaining Blades and town guards couldn't. In the time that had passed since the Oblivion Crisis, neither long nor short, he had gone on more little quests to make his peoples' lives better than he could count.

For a time, he had pondered going into the Fighters Guild, but he wasn't a true warrior. He had lingered on the idea of joining the Mages Guild as well, but hadn't had the moment to inquire what that would cost in all the sudden work he had been swamped under, tasked with being Cyrodiil's idol and protector. His province had lost their true leader to stone, and in a way, he had taken the place in terms of morale.

He didn't stay in Cloud Ruler Temple anymore, barely considered himself a Blade. He didn't have a home. And just the same, everywhere was Akatosh's home, it he didn't think about it too hard.

"I suppose you've seen a lot, then." The enriching tone buried in the words brought him from his reflections.

"Too much," Akatosh muttered. "I've seen too much." He just wanted to have someone he cared about again. He held his civilians and his province in his heart, but even his want for someone to love as he had loved Martin overcame everything else. He felt lonely. He felt... lost.

The plate was empty soon enough, and his stomach full. The water was perfectly cold as it washed down his throat, tasting almost sweet. "Thank you for the meal," he said to the stranger, rising from his seat as well as his quiet tone of voice. "Barkeep!" He called over, catching Wilbur's attention from where he was tending to some hardy Nords. "Could I have a room?"

"If you've got the coin!" Wilbur started over to him, Akatosh leaning down for his bag. His hands touched only empty air. Confused, he glanced at his feet where he had laid his sack, shocked to find it missing.

Akatosh swerved his head around, searching. Why was it gone? Had someone stolen it? Who would still from him? The hero saw a retreating back, belonging to a tall man with a slender build and a familiar hairstyle. The man he had been talking to, all of a sudden sprouting up from his spot and high-tailing to the exit.

"Hey!" Akatosh shouted, bringing down the noise level of the inn by a small amount as eyes glazed over at the source of the obnoxious interruption. The brunet didn't pay them any mind, running forward and dashing between the people in his way, trying to reach a door already closing.

He burst out before it could shut and stumbled out into the rain. Fog hung onto the ground, grey clouds still spewing drops of water that soaked clothes that had begun to dry inside. His fur boots felt heavy, as did his eyes, and even more did his gut as it sunk when he found no other being outside with him.

* * *

His dreams left him in the tensed air of his rude awakening, and the hero of Kvatch was left gasping in the stiff darkness.

His room was a divine one, small body enveloped in the thick velvet covers of a king-sized bed, wooden floor shielded with a fur rug and tall windows blocked out by large curtains. It had been given to him out of apology after Akatosh had explained what had happened (and seemingly more importantly, who he was), and although the situation was sorrowful he refused to be.

And truth be told, at the very moment he was not sad, but sickly. He allowed himself some seconds sprawled across his bed to rest the feeling. Just as his eyes were closing once more the pain behind his forehead erupted, and he lunged upwards, fingers flying to his temples. Nausea overcame his senses and made his vision fuzzy, throat inexplicably parched with mouth disgustingly dry. Akatosh bit down on his bottom lip to help prevent vomiting and was surprised when his teeth easily dug into the flesh and made it stung painfully.

The hero stumbled away from the bed, tripping slightly as he hurried to the small washroom within his large suite. He managed to get through the open compartment where an empty bucket and a table topped with a mirror took up the tiny room. His fingers clung onto the edges of the empty bucket, but all that came from his mouth was small whimpers under his breath.

His lip stung from the puncture but did not bleed, and when he ran his finger against the soft tissue, he could feel the heavy indents. Akatosh winced as his head continued its dull thuds of pain, and he wished more than ever he had knowledge of restoration magicks, or at least his potions. All he had now was a set of ragged clothes and Martin's knife.

Deciding his stomach was good for now, he got to his feet, world spinning dizzily around him. Akatosh made his way to the table, leaning against its countertop where the wood was carved into to create a pool of water. He reached into the now warm water and used it to scrub his face, bare lotus blossom hovering across the surface of the transparent liquid and giving it a flowery smell. Gently, his headache started to lessen its hold, and he glanced into the mirror.

And glanced again.

Akatosh's migraine and the stinging from his lips faded to the back of his mind. His finger reached to the shiny, clear suspension of glass, touching its surface. It was like the one in his statue friend's room, where he had first seen his face completely, but there was one minor difference; he saw nothing in this one.

The hero touched his face as if it the problem was that it had gone missing. He brushed against the scar on his cheek from the zombie in Miscarcand, felt the sweat-coated clumps of brown hair and features rubbed clean with the sink water. It was still there, but his reflection wasn't.

"I'm going mad," he murmured. Talking to himself probably wasn't the trait to disprove the claim to insanity. "Or, this, this is a dream. It has to be. Maybe I'm just stressed about loosing-" he cut off there, sentence dying in his wheezy throat. What hadn't he lost? All the items in his bag like his Kvatch armor and Baurus's katana, all his companions to the battle of Bruma, and perhaps the man he had loved more than anyone, had loved before he truly understood the concept.

Martin had been his best friend. When he wasn't off closing Gates he was at the priest's table of books or walking around Cloud Ruler's halls, seeing Cyrodiil in her grace from the view of high snowy hills. He had been there to patch up Akatosh's wounds from the moment they met, had given the hero a name and taught him the way of mages, taught him that it was okay to feel fear as long as you knew it wouldn't influence your courage and strength. He had seen the person closest to him die for Tamriel, and all he had gotten for it was something to cry for and a kiss.

Akatosh steeled himself. Just because his bag was stolen from some damned thief didn't mean the broken mirror was perfectly explained. And that was what it had to be; broken. It didn't truly need an explanation. Broken mirrors don't work. Things that are broken _don't work_.

He turned his back on the room and began to dress for the new day.

* * *

Akatosh braced the outside as if it were an enemy to conquer. The door clunked shut behind him. Fog hung around the damp morning, no wind to breeze along the bare branches of the cherry blossom trees. His thin sweater tucked into sack cloth pants, although protecting his arms, was still wet from the night before and brought shivers down his spine and goosebumps to his skin.

His fur boots walked the cobblestone road. Akatosh could do some grunt work to earn some septims, surely, and there was still nothing stopping him traveling the open trails. Admittedly, he wasn't going anywhere beyond the docks today; his head still hurt horribly, and it was only because his need for fresh air that he was out before any citizens had woken. Today was for recovery from whatever sickness he had picked up, and tomorrow was adventure.

This wouldn't be too difficult. He was starting from scratch again, just like the beginning of his first memories in a prison cell. Granted, he had been given assistance and guidance and aid, but the lack of those variables only added to the challenge, didn't it? It was like turning the first page in a book unread, not that he knew the feeling himself with his lack of literary skills, but it seemed to fit the analogy well enough. It was a new beginning.

He turned the corner from where he had been strolling. Akatosh was on a journey to the waterfront, wishing for the smell of saltwater and the gentle calls of seagulls, desiring to see the docked ships with their massive structures careening in the wake of rolling waves. He made it not too far before hearing a gasp of surprise, and met the owner of such a sound to only regret it thereafter.

It was a lovely child who had been sitting at one of the benches under the nook of a shop. Her dark hair was drawn into a braid, startling green eyes glaring at him, appalled. Akatosh was astonished to see fear buried within her features.

He could have carried on his way, but didn't, opening his mouth to greet her. The action seemingly prompted her to scream. Her mother, who had thus far been engrossed in a lengthy novel, snapped her gaze at the intruder. And for the first time, he recognized the intruder as himself.

He turned his face away before the woman could see it, covering it with his hands. What? Why was she screaming?

"Don't do that," the woman scolded her daughter. "You should apologize to the man."

"Mommy!" She screeched in a whisper made too loud. "His eyes were red!"

He could see the mother look at him from his peripheral vision. He was still standing there. _Why was he still standing there?_ "I'm sure it was just a trick of the light, dear."

The girl whined. "No, mommy," she insisted. "He had fangs."

He felt his teeth with his tongue. Maybe his jaw was heavier than usual, and his teeth a bit pointy, but wasn't it always like that? He didn't have fangs. That couldn't be true. No, it wasn't, of course it wasn't, she was just seeing things. She had to be seeing things.

Akatosh finally faced the two. "Look," he prompted. "Look!" He hadn't meant to sound forceful, not with the migraine exploding back into existence behind his eyes. He glared at them through the haze of pain.

The woman stood, grabbing onto her daughter's wrist and backing away. "Don't come any closer," she threatened, and the fear in their faces was nothing like what he felt. "Get away!" She turned her heel and ran, making one of the patrolling guards catch sight of the situation.

It made no sense. Did he really look that sick? Nobody in the inn had been there to stop him, but truthfully, nobody in the inn actually awake had paid attention to him. But why had the mother reacted like that? Why had the daughter described him like a monster? Like a creature of the night?

Like a vampire.

Akatosh's world stopped. His arm ached more than ever, and for the first time, he raised it to his face. He pulled back the sleeve of his wool sweater, peeling back the linen bandage. Back when he had wrapped it up, it had been swollen, presumedly from whatever rock he had scraped against in the cave with the battle against Azura's vampires. Now the swelling was gone, and what he saw wasn't a scrape, but two evenly separated red dots against his pale forearm.

Akatosh's knees went weak, and the bile he had felt rushing up his throat when he had woken up came back at full force. He vomited on the sidewalk, barely holding himself up, body trembling with the new realization. His pointed ears picked up on each sound; the twittering of birds in the distance, the steps of the guard as he ran towards the hero, the moans coming from his own throat.

He back away before the soldier could reach him, wiping away the last of his meal from last night and turning to shield his form. Akatosh heard the guard trying to speak but couldn't make out the words he said, and then he was stumbling away, trying to run.

He couldn't be seen like this. He was their hero, not the same weak Breton fresh from the sewers. He was strong, not weak, and even now he refused to be seen like this. Akatosh escaped out the wooden gate, knocking into the barrier with his might and having it give. The hero heard shouts from behind but didn't stop, mounting his horse swiftly from the stable feet away and cutting apart the rope holding her.

With that, the hero of Kvatch fled from the small gather of soldiers, riding under a sun that should have scorched his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, just hit 69 views. That could have been so awesome if there was porn in this chapter. But no, you guys get vomit...
> 
> *shrugs*


	3. Read Forbidden Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akatosh manages to do something without causing a huge catastrophe and even makes it all the way to Bruma without getting seriously injured. Whoop! (Follows, well...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be soon!

It was cold.

So cold.

His horse only made it halfway to the Imperial City before rearing back. The action threw him straight off the steed's leather saddle and onto the ground. He spluttered and blinked, rain drops like little bullets pounding on his muddy form.

It would have been disgusting to cry, so he didn't. Crying was for the weak hero who had to drag a corpse across the Sigil tower. He was better than that, now, and he was capable of pulling himself up and continuing to Bruma.

Akatosh struggled to his feet, pushing his hair back. It had been a long while since that one time when Martin cut it, back when he had still been gathering allies for Bruma, and he didn't really care anymore. Admittedly, it did get in the way, but he didn't want to shorten it. Martin doing it was somehow different.

His fur boots felt uneven on the ground. Really, his whole world felt uneven, as if it were suddenly balancing precariously off the edge of the universe, just seconds from falling. Akatosh felt just seconds from falling, and it was only by leaning on his grunting horse that he stayed upright.

"Shut it," he murmured, spooning out the last of his magical reserves to calm his nickering steed. It would be a miracle to get to Cloud Ruler Temple at this rate, at least with this ride. Maybe to the Imperial City, which was only some hours away. He could probably buy a horse at the stables- or at least bribe one of the stablehands into letting him buy one, seeing as they weren't for sale. It was plausible, and really, the best place for him to stay until he could figure this all out would be at the temple.

Akatosh shivered as he mounted the chestnut furred animal. This thing had deserted him outside the ruins of Miscarcand, but at the same time, it was the fastest thing he had. Even faster than the Prior's old paint horse, and less dead at that. He would have to make do.

With a smack on the rear and an encouraging yell, they were off, running in the midst of a storm.

* * *

He pulled back from their full gallop as he came within sights of the White-Gold Tower. At a slower trot the rest of the hold revealed itself to him in its shining marble encasement. He skirted around the road and took the back way to the stables, hopping over the wooden rails with a well-placed tug and a large jostle.

The grass had sunken well into the ground, sparkling with dew. Each step squished under his feet and made an unpleasant sound in the silence of night, causing him to flinch. He was already nervous enough about what he was about to do as it was.

Akatosh tethered his horse to the gate before moving quietly up to the row of nice Imperial bred horses. Each one had a spotless coat and nervous feet, ready to be released and set about. He knew it to be a trait of the faster types, and didn't doubt that any one of these could take him up to where he needed to be before tomorrow's midday.

The hero let a long sigh escape him. He didn't like the thought of this, but knew it to be necessary. It wasn't as if a person lived without disobeying the law once in their life, and although he had no idea the extent he had done so to get into prison, it didn't change the need to complete this rather distasteful task. Plus, as his terrible memory had eventfully revealed a mile down from here, he didn't have any money.

He crept over to the only white one of the bunch. Akatosh was new to thievery, but he did have the feeling taking the flashiest item of the bunch was sure to get some attention. Still, when Baurus had tutored him on combat, he had devoted a section of their time to horseback riding to better his skills. The Blade had drilled it into his head (along with other things) that you always pick the fastest horse and that the white ones were it. Or was it the black ones? He supposed it didn't matter; there weren't any black ones, and he was going with this guy.

Akatosh didn't bother to transfer the saddle- he didn't remember how all the ties and knots went, and didn't think he had the strength to carry the heavy weight anyway. The Breton jumped onto the steed's bare back before he could loose the courage to do so, bidding it nervously forward.

Nothing else stirred. Beneath him was an animal who's muscles flexed elegantly like clockwork covered in a hue of purest white. He heaved upwards when they approached the end of the gate and she jumped it gracefully, mane getting tangled in his fingers.

He rushed her forward before his luck could run out like it had so many times before. Together, they bounded over the bridge stretching over a stream of Lake Rumare, cutting across the inn at the end and heading off into the countryside. He didn't have time or concentration to feel guilty between the spaces of trees that blurred by them both, feeling weightless at the exhilarating speed.

The damp ground turned to snow dusted hills, and he turned back to the road. Bruma came into the horizon just as the last of the clouds cleared away, exposing the furious sun. It was easy to forget how good sunlight felt on one's skin, especially when he had no idea how much longer the sensation would last.

The thought was almost enough to make him sick again, so he beckoned his tired horse up the rest of the way. The pounding of hooves along the slope of the mountain was rhythmic to his ears, all up to the point where they slowed down as he got to the doors.

The stone walls of the Blades' fortress looked unyielding as he gazed upon them from their shadow. He didn't understand how the occasional thief or spy had enough guts to make it up here and even try to break in. Those doors were impassive, the height vast, and the attempt fruitless.

He knew he was being watched, could feel the eyes on his form. He also knew he wouldn't be recognizable from this height without his armor, and although he would usually just stroll right in anyway (you can't lock doors without doorknobs and they never barricaded the entrance unless they were under attack) his fellow knights had been awfully high strung as of late. It was kind of his fault, too. He had been the reason their leader was of stone, and now Jauffre was gone, too, because he couldn't end the battle of Bruma quick enough.

He got off his horse. Akatosh's rough sweater was soaked thoroughly, sack cloth pants hanging loosely on his waist and only being restrained by the belt on which his dagger hung. He stepped up to the door, ignoring the pain between his thighs from riding hours on end, and knocked in a delicate sequence taught to him as soon as he had joined the order.

The brunet waited patiently for the few seconds it took for the doors to slide open slowly. And slowly they went indeed, weighing more than he did. A helmeted face poked out from the crack, and he braced himself for the bone-crushing hug that Baurus always gave him when he got back from his trips.

He quickly loosened his posture when the tackle never came, as it wouldn't. The doors opened fully to let him in, his retriever offering him a tight smile under his helmet. "Took you long enough."

He didn't trust himself to talk, merely nodding. Akatosh could tell who it was by the familiar glimmer in the Redguard's brown eyes and the deep tilt to his voice. Cyrus ushered his stolen horse inside, leaving the Breton to figure it out for himself.

Akatosh walked over the evenly patterned stones of the temple's floor, heaving to close the doors behind him. He managed it three times as long as it normally would have taken but he did it without help, and it was good enough. The hero allowed Cyrus to stable his horse with the lone bay in their horse stalls, having a feeling the Blade would want to talk to him, and knowing he had plenty to say as it was.

Akatosh's assumption proved to be correct as his friend waved him over, beckoning him into Cloud Ruler. He ducked inside after Cyrus, treasuring the warmth that spread over his skin, even if the relief somehow felt more dulled than it usually would have after traveling so long in the rain and snow. Banners bearing the crest of their outfit swayed gently in the wind seeping through the door before it closed, leaving them to the heat of the fireplace aglow with crackling flames.

"Do you mind if we take a seat and talk for a while?" It was empty besides them in the hall, the rest of the Blades either sleeping or patrolling.

Akatosh looked down at his feet. "Okay." He couldn't gauge Cyrus' reaction and didn't feel the need to, looking as the taller man took a seat at the table across from Martin's. He purposely avoided looking at the arrangement of books on the thing, sitting on the wooden bench with his back to the fireplace.

The hero didn't meet Cyrus' gaze. It was the Redguard who spoke first. "How has your traveling been?"

"It's been good." And before this mess, it had been. He had spent two weeks bedridden in Martin's old room, sobbing over the tussled sheets and refusing to come out like a heartbroken female not yet in her age of being a woman. Coming out of that room and taking it upon himself to mount his horse and improve the life of his citizens had been amazing, like his own way of rebelling against the cruelty of fate.

There wasn't a way to put that into words, so he settled on the feeble sentence like a bear might settle on the meat of a bird for dinner when the deer proved too fast to pursue. "They've made a statue for you, you know. For their hero of Kvatch."

He nodded. Akatosh had seen it when he had been called in by Countess Narina. She had wanted some artifact retrieved and it had proved quite the adventure, and as always, he has turned down her gracious gift as he had all the other offered rewards. He almost regretted the decision now that he was poor again.

Cyrus finally sighed. "And what's wrong with you?" He asked, not unkindly. "You act afraid."

 _I am afraid_ , he thought, and the words were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he finally swerved his neck up to meet the eyes of the other.

It took the taller a moment to notice the difference in his face- or rather, to perceive it. It gave Akatosh idle time to study the lines across his features that were showing age in a young man. He couldn't imagine how they felt, failing their job a second time. Well, he could, having witnessed both deaths by his own account, but he wasn't trapped to guard a place lacking the person it was built for.

Cyrus didn't gasp or scream or impale him with a silver sword. Instead, his mouth barely slackened, before the Blade clenched his jaw to clear himself of signs of weakness. "You're bitten."

Akatosh shuddered. He couldn't help it; he felt as if he were about to burst from strain. Again, he nodded, not trusting his voice enough to speak.

Cyrus adopted a softer gleam to his eyes. "Is this why you came here?" It wasn't accusing. It was an honest question, one that he struggled to provide an answer for still.

"Partially," Akatosh replied eventually. "I had to come here again soon. I couldn't keep running on fumes." It was a truth he had known the months he had spent going around Cyrodiil. He needed people, and these were his people, even if he barely knew their names.

"I understand." After that, they were silent for a while. Akatosh didn't feel the need to fill the empty space with meaningless words. He was content to look at the creases in the wooden table, examine the patterns carved in by man and nature. It was a sturdy thing that held up just fine for all its flaws.

Finally, be broke the quiet between them, hearing it shatter inside his ear drums. "Do you know where I can get help? I haven't turned yet, not completely, I think. I can still walk in the sunlight without getting burned. All that's really changed is how I look, and there must be a cure somewhere." There always had to be hope.

Cyrus thought about it. "The only way I can point you to is the Imperial City," he said. "The Mages Guild might know something to help, and I've personally not dealt with vampires before, so I can't be of much help."

He had already considered speaking to Tar-Meena, or any one of the mages. Truly, Akatosh should have just stayed when he got to the city and avoided resorting to thievery, but there was things he needed here. Like money. And clothes. And food. Things.

"I guess I should gather my things and get going," he thought aloud. Akatosh made to stand, having his arm grabbed before he could. He frowned confusedly at Cyrus. "What?"

"Maybe you should stay the night," the Blade suggested. He opened his mouth to argue before falling short. The exhaustion he felt was clear on his face and the way he held himself; he had been riding horseback for quite a while after all. And either way, it wouldn't do good to disrespect some of the few friends he had by showing up in the first time for months and leaving quicker than they could blink.

"Yeah, okay." The Redguard let go of him, satisfied. "I'll just get everything prepared in the morning."

The more he thought about it, the more appealing the prospect of sleep grew. He could get food and drink later, after all. Akatosh scooted out from the bench, stopping as his eyes finally fell on the table next to theirs.

He sighed a soft sigh. Akatosh approached it slowly, gaze sweeping across the arrangement of books weathered with age and the miscellaneous scrolls of notes sprawled across the reads. There was still the dirty dishes from the food the hero would bring his best friend when said friend forgot to get it for himself, along with the spilled over ink bottle from when he had clumsily knocked it over. Well, not so much clumsily as rashly, angered at the way Martin hadn't let him have a peek at the Xarxes when he could read Daedric fluently and it took weeks for the priest to transcribe a paragraph. He never had told the man about that, but he regretted it now.

"You haven't touched this, huh?" Akatosh murmured. His hands shook as he picked up a piece of parchment layered in Martin's delicate handwriting. He wished he could read the words.

Cyrus shook his head, likewise standing. "None of us feel we have the right to disturb Emperor Martin's old studies." He left Akatosh with a parting comment before he headed out the door to continue his watch; "Feel free to do with them what you want."

He spent a few lonely moments observing the objects strewn about the table, both him and them bathed in the light glow of the fire. Spotting a familiar tome, he opened the cover, fumbling with it slightly. He almost ripped the page as he tried to flip it over.

And there it was. "When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee." He whispered the words as if they were cursed. It was a precise and fragile translation from the haggard runes that held the words, scrawled underneath fine printed letters that hid their meaning away from him. He didn't know who had scribbled the symbols in, but more likely than not it was his Septim friend.

He held the book against his chest. Taking a deep breath, Akatosh turned his back on the table, heading through the side door to the West Wing. The Breton was careful to be as quiet as he could heading up the stairs as to not disturb the sleeping Blades, making his short march to Martin's room.

The sliding door clicked into place smoothly. His eyes took in the full sight of the empty bedroom. An elegant mirror stood balanced atop a delicately carved sink, small restroom behind a side door and a wardrobe shoved to the side. He padded over to Martin's bed, setting his novel on the nightstand and sliding off his fur boots. The hero looked on with discontent on the state of his torn shoes, adding it to the list of things he needed to replace.

He slid off his sweater, leaving his sack cloth pants on for now and wrapping his torso in the thick blankets on the bed. Light from outside seethed onto the sheets from the window overhead, adding a spot of brightness to the otherwise dark room. He reached over to the candle next to his book, pulling it on his lap.

Akatosh placed his fingers on the thin string poking out from the metal encased candle wax, trying to muster something from his Magicka reserves to ignite the tip. It took him a couple tries to summon the barest flicker of flames, and he moved his hand back, watching owlishly as the fire engulfed the candle. It swerved before his sight in the absence of wind, moving feverishly as he carried it with him to the sink.

Akatosh set it on the marble frame, turning the nozzle on the strange metal contraption positioned at the sink's crest. Water trickled idly down the mouth of the nozzle, and whether it was from enchantment or complicated machinery he didn't know. He used the cold water to clean the dirt from his face, scrubbing the skin clean and glancing up out of habit to see if he had done an adequate job. The mirror revealed nothing to him.

Scowling softly, he turned off the flow of water, watching it trickle down the drain and go wherever the thing emptied out to. Taking back his light source and dragging the blankets slung around his shoulders with him, the Breton collapsed into Martin's bed. And with a quick huff of breath, the candle was out.

"Well," the hero murmured, and then in Daedric, " _goodnight to me_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do know the black horses are the fastest ;P


	4. The Feeling That's Been Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Akatosh becomes emo. And doesn't really do much than angst, honestly, but that's been the theme of this sequel since it started. One hopes you aren't bored reading what's basically "The Daily Life of Mister Midget Elf" now. By the Nine, Akatosh is a shortie. Sorry, it's been a while since we've done a chapter summary, I've lost my touch. (Follows nada)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HahahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA
> 
>  
> 
> ...sorry?

He didn't notice the cold, the cold that left him with a sensation akin to being encased in ice, not at first. He didn't notice the disgusting, dry feeling in his mouth, as if he hadn't so much as glanced at a drop of water in years, not at first. He didn't notice the faint hunger stirring in his gut, like cave bear stirring in his home as Frostfall ended and First Seed began- not at first. No, the first thing he noticed was his own voice, crying, _screaming_ out, and every other thing that he felt came to his attention after that.

The scream had surprised him, jolting out of his throat, the product of a terror in his dreams that his memory lost the grasp of seconds after. Next was the way he moved, falling promptly off the bed, the covers around him wrapping him up and coming along with him on the journey down to the hard ground beneath. Martin's bed was on a slight platform, a space of raised ground in the center of the room right beneath wide windows, and by his luck, he rolled off the platform and thudded on the ground _again_ , another ground, but the second fall just as hard and shocking as the first.

The previously mentioned windows were open, of course. A soft breeze was blowing the curtains covering them, was ghosting inside the room, was somehow breaching the warmth of his blankets and raising goosebumps on his skin. There was no warmth to his blankets, even, there was no warmth to his flesh- but there was never warmth, only cold. Only cold anymore.

That same hunger stirred again. He wanted to throw up. He did; or he would have, at least, but he didn't have any food in his body to hurl. That was the point of the hunger, after all, and it left him dry heaving on the ground for seconds that felt like minutes, minutes that felt like hours, everything feeling like _years_. He wished the hunger was for food. Was for drink. He... he would have helped it, then, if it were for such things, but he knew how his body was changing, knew what it was hungering for.

Would it be alright to ask for sustenance? Cyrus knew the troubles he went through. Would it be acceptable to ask him for- for-

_No_. The thoughts themselves made him sicker than he was. The idea of feeding this demon in his body, his state of mind- no, there wasn't a thing "alright" with that.

He had had better starts to his mornings than this, admittedly.

It took a while for the heaving to subside, and then he was squirming and fighting against the covers wrapped around his form, but tearing them off all the same. As cold as the blankets were, without them, it was colder, and he shivered and shook, but climbed back onto the bed and reached up to the open window, closing it all the same. It had been closed when he had gone to sleep, but he wouldn't be surprised if a Blade had come in earlier and had opened it whilst he had been resting to let some fresh air inside the stuffy and stale room. Martin had rarely used this room when he had been here, preferring to deprive himself of sleep translating that damned book than rest. The Blades weren't used to people staying in here, and he was their comrade, their friend. Everyone looked after one another, even if it was for things as small and simple as opening a window. That's what he imagined, anyway. Maybe Uriel's ghost was floating around and trying to freeze him to death as revenge for getting his son killed. He didn't know if that thought was supposed to make him want to laugh or want to cry, but he wasn't laughing.

Either way, the window was closed, and as tempted as he was to collapse back into a bed that didn't belong to him in the first place, he somehow dragged himself over to the wardrobe to get dressed. Everything was too big on his form, so he paid no attention to what he pulled over himself, and he packed a plentiful amount of extra clothes to last him a couple of weeks, heading out of the room thereafter. His breakfast was lonely, most of the soldiers outside making their rounds or still sleeping, or buried with the rest of the fallen, with Baurus and Jauffre, with all of the numbers that had perished in the battle for Bruma and weren't likely to be joining him for breakfast anytime soon. He felt like he may as well be shoving each piece of bread and slice of fruit down his throat, and each bit of water he forced himself to drink was as tasking as swallowing ashes. He didn't know if he needed to eat food or not, and he didn't feel any less hungry after he did so, but he guessed it was good enough.

He headed out to the courtyard of Cloud Ruler Temple after that, bracing himself for the cold air and somehow still being shocked by the dreadful sensation of it as it hit. Out of all the thoughts that had ever crossed his mind, he had never imagined how horrible vampires might feel in the cold, what with the lack of blood in their veins. He had never thought he would ever sympathize with creatures of the night, either, but Akatosh didn't exactly lead the most normal of lives. He could remember when he had rode up here with Martin and Jauffre, his heart heavy from losing the Amulet, but his hopes high at the possibility to still win it back. He could remember when the great doors had been opened, too, and the first time they had been, it had felt like it took years for them to fully split apart. And then the Blades, lined up along the stairs, the way his feet thudded against the stone ground and shook his form, the pride he felt walking besides Martin through saluting Blades, imagining how it must have felt for the priest. He even could recall the words Martin said in his stumbling speech, and somehow, those stumbling, shy stutters would always mean more to him than the grand, confident shouts he had given out at the Great Gate's battlefield when it had still been empty.

It looked the same as it had did then within the tall walls surrounding the temple. Fires blazing in the stone braziers lining the steps that lead to the front doors, snow gently falling from the skies, soldiers in shining armor walking along the perimeter route and watching for spies that wouldn't come, because they didn't have anything all that better to do. He knew the hidden beauty of the fortress well, and the not-so-hidden beauty of Cyrodiil, the heart of Tamriel in all her glory. He didn't know why he had been expecting anything different. Maybe it was because Akatosh felt so empty and dead inside that he expected everything outside to be just the same, and was surprised when it wasn't.

_Good thoughts for today_ , he decided.

Akatosh got to his stolen horse and mounted her, not surprised to see a brand new saddle on the steed, no doubt an addition Cyrus or one of the other Blades had made. The doors were opened for him and goodbyes were given but weren't returned, and then he was off again. He had always been so excited, months ago, a year, even, to take off on his horse and race towards a great, daring adventure. The feeling had lessened somewhat since Miscarcand, and then more after losing Jauffre and Baurus, and was completely gone now. But it wasn't really adventure anymore, he supposed.

The sun still didn't burn his skin as he rode under it after passing the overcast skies that plagued northern Cyrodiil most days, which was the first good news to grace today. The sight of the white marble city, glimmering amongst the deep blue waters of Lake Rumare, nestled against plentiful and vast forests- it was a breathtaking sight, and never failed to take said breath away time and time again he saw it, except for today. Maybe that was because he was too submerged in his own depression to notice, but it could have been that he didn't have a breath, too.

He tied his horse to a tree a good deal away from the Imperial City entrance gates, even off the island altogether, if mostly out of guilt, and even stronger guilt that he wasn't going to return the steed, either. Akatosh could live with the fact that he stole a horse, though- just once he found a reason to want to live at all. _Good thoughts everywhere today_ , his mind commented, and agreed with itself, but he didn't pay attention to it all for long, getting distracted by a song a passing bird sung up ahead before it fluttered away and continued with its morning. A mudcrab scuttled on the shore of Lake Rumare below him as he walked across the bridge connecting the Imperial City to land, and disappeared into a cluster of rocks thereafter, hiding from the world and any passerby. Akatosh didn't blame it.

Guards saluted and nodded at him as he passed, and didn't ask as to why he kept his head down and held his silence above his tongue and over his lips; it wasn't their job to do so, but to open the gates for him, which they did. The market was empty and quiet, as he had woken up early, but he didn't mind it, and took his time to walk along the barren streets and remember times when it didn't take him hours into the day to spare a single smile. He passed through districts with eyes that saw past anything they looked at, too lost in his own thoughts, and he must have carried onto the Arcane University on some sort of autopilot, as he surprised himself as he got to the doors.

They were pushed open, and Akatosh let in. As expected, it was empty, and not all that warmer than outside, Cyrodiil's mornings always cold no matter where you spent them, but he sat down at a bench despite this all to wait. Shelves lined the circular walls with countless valuable tomes in them, none of which he could read, crystal globes and alchemy sets and enchanted scrolls sitting atop tall desks. Portals were in here, too- not gaping, flaming ones spewing Daedra out of their entrances, but strange runed ones in the ground that Akatosh didn't understand and didn't care to. He was more than content with sitting here and waiting, in the silence, in the semi-darkness, alone again.

The shimmer of a portal sounded behind him, the sound of one being used. This happened after an hour or so of waiting, where he had began to doze off where he had been slouched over sitting, but it wasn't who he was looking for, so he waited longer. More people came and went, most glancing at him with awed or surprised gazes and few ignoring him as if he were as important or useful to them as a paperweight lighter than a feather, but they all carried on nonetheless. The dimness of the waiting room hid his orange tinted eyes and the paleness of his features, and they couldn't guess why he was there otherwise, so they didn't try. It was another hour before she came, and as he stood at her appearance, she noticed him, and in the strange way Argonians always smiled, she did and immediately came towards him.

Before she could say a thing, he gestured silently for her to follow him outside, and Tar-Meena obliged, following his footsteps out. As they made their way out of the front doors, she seemed to understand he wanted somewhere private, and she bid him to follow her, which he did. The Argonian woman lead him to one of the gates at the side of the side of the University that blocked any passerby from continuing on out to the rest of the college grounds that non-scholars weren't permitted access to, and she procured a key from within one of the pockets of her robe and unlocked the gate, much to his surprise, quickly ushering him inside along with her.

The rest of the Arcane University was quite honestly stunning to him, and it genuinely shocked him to have the privilege to see it. There were stores inside, a lecturing area, a big, beautiful garden full of colorful mushrooms and glowing flowers and peculiar looking plants- it was a surprising sight, and she only smiled at him still. "You may not be a scholar of the Arcane University, or even of the arcane arts, but I do not think any of my fellow colleagues would deny the Champion of Cyrodiil access to our University grounds, if only to speak for a while. Or am I incorrect?" He responded with an "I hope not" and followed her to the empty lecture area, and as they sat down on one of the benches in the dewed grass, he finally raised his head and met her gaze that he had been since avoiding.

For the first few seconds, she still carried her grin, her slitted reptilian eyes not registering the sight before he yet. The full-toothed smiled remained even when the happiness in said smile didn't, before her features finally corresponded with her discovery, and then she let out a loud, loud gasp of surprise, and he readied himself for it all. Readied himself for the screams, for the cries of horror, for the spells sure to be flung his way, that would burn his skin and flay him alive and end his life that should have ended the second Martin broke that stupid Amulet.

Of course, it never came, none of that. She was a sensible woman, a calm one, and by all accounts, not a cruel one, and all he got was that surprise. It spurred him to explain, but as he started to tell her about everything, he fell short, and gave her a shortened version instead; "I've been bitten."

The reaction he received wasn't at all one he had been expecting. "But have you, truly?" Her shock seemed to have been swallowed down, and it was his time to be surprised at Tar-Meena's answer.

"What?"

"Bitten," she explained, and when he was still very clearly lost, she went on. "To be experiencing the beginning effects of Porphyric Hemophilia." He blinked at that, blankly, not recognizing the term.

"What, you mean..." He gestured to himself, his face, and she did a mixture of sighing and snorting, in a weird, weird way.

"No," she said, using sarcasm, but he didn't pick up on it, so she quickly hurried on. "Yes, yes, I'm addressing your vampirism! Now, usually, being bitten would be very obvious and painful and one would have time to get away from the beast digging their fangs into them, right? But you would have noticed that, and practically everyone that gets bitten immediately comes to us or to even a Chapel to receive treatment before they can turn."

"Which is what I came here for," he interrupted. "Could I, um, have that? Treatment?" She shook her head very quickly, and as soon as she did so, his heart sank even further into his gut, but he listened as she kept talking.

"You're past that point," she told him. "No, you're in the first stage of Porphyric Hemophilia, or as we have discussed, what many refer to as vampirism. You are still able to walk in sunlight without being charred, which is obvious enough, but yet you are just as obliviously turned. This will not last forever, though, and soon, you will have to feed to remain immune to the sun's light burning you, so right now is the best time to find a cure." His heart lifted up again at the word "cure" so fast that it got caught in his throat and he spluttered, but she didn't appear to take notice. " Of course, this is operating under the assumption that you haven't already fed, but I don't imagine you would be here, asking me for help, if that were to be the case. In fact, you being here and talking to me sensibly at all suggests that you must have only been like this for a few days, a week at the very most."

He tilted his head at that. "What's your reasoning for this?" She waved her hand in a neglecting way, and didn't answer. Not to be rude, though, he didn't think. She almost appeared to not want to answer.

"Now, as I was saying before. I do not think you have been bitten, or you very likely would not have became a vampire at all. You do not strike me as the type to go after curses such like this for mere power. I am correct in this?" He nodded. "Good. No, I think you may have been scratched, perhaps, any blood-to-blood contact. Biting does not need to be enacted to pass on this disease, for there are many possibilities-"

"Is this important to finding a cure?" Again, he interrupted.

Tar-Meena faltered in not only her words, but composure. "Well, no." She seemed to get the point he was saying, but was a little surprised at how rudely he had gone about saying it. A little part of him was surprised, too. "I can give you the location to a woman I know who may be able to help. I don't have a clue how, or who she is, as a colleague and myself have only discussed this matter, and briefly, so I do advise to exercise caution-"

"Please. Just..." If Akatosh had a breath, it would have been quickening. If his heart still moved, it would have been pounding. "I just want to know where."

She was quiet, but she nodded. He had procured a map by now, granted, not the same as his old one, but a map nonetheless, and she marked it. Before she could say a single thing else, he had hastened a goodbye her way and was off. People gave him not a single glance as he hurried by, each person caring only about themselves, their own lives, and it didn't matter to him, he didn't blame them. One of the few people that did care about him anymore, one of the few that wanted him to be okay, that would have cared that he wasn't- she watched him run and go off, as if he couldn't stand to bare her presence, but that wasn't true. He just couldn't stand for anyone to bare _his_.

He was still yet to smile today.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooo...
> 
> What's shakin', bacon?  
> Yeah, I don't have a good excuse for this shit. Well, I do, but, erm, I think we can all safely assume not many hear care about my personal and quite honestly very boring life ;P But hey, I said I wasn't planning on ever discontinuing this story or this series (somewhere probably) and I meant it!  
> ...just took me a while, heh.  
> I've got a lot more free time on my hands now, though, at least, so do expect, y'know, updates that aren't split up by months. Or, of course, do the smart thing and mistrust every thing that comes out of my dirty lying mouth. I would if I were you. Hey, no one reads this though, anyway, right? Pfffft.
> 
> Love you guys, however many of you that have put up with my bullshit and are still around, anyway ;D


	5. All That's Felt Is Anger Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akatosh discovers that witches are weird and he's kind of a little bitch sometimes. (Follows the beginning of "Vampire Cure")

Akatosh didn't understand how it could be so bright outside when even the moon was blocked by clouds in the middle of the night.

Well, maybe _bright_ wasn't exactly the right word. There wasn't light, not at all. He was off the Imperial roads, riding through the countryside of Cyrodiil, following the Corbolo River uphill. The trickling of waters from the rather calm river was hypnotic, almost; it was a nice sound, paired with the clopping of his horse's hooves against the dirt ground. An occasional rustle of leaves from a small gust of wind was a nice sound, too, but it brought a hard shiver up his spine, feeling more like the touch of a Frost Atronach than a gentle breeze.

It was all serene, but dark nonetheless, or at least, it should have been. The moon, previously mentioned- both of them, in fact- were covered by clouds, and the same was with the multitude of stars that hung in the sky, with the exception of a few distant lights here and there that didn't do much for the people below them. He had no torch, as fire made him flinch in a way he couldn't explain, just like how the sun was almost blindingly bright to his eyes when it was out. But, despite this all, he could still see.

The darkness wasn't _dark_ to him, didn't obscure his vision. While the sun's light seemed to make things softer, the absence of it made things sharper, and he found himself spotting details in the nature scene around him unclear to Akatosh before. He didn't know what to make of it, so out of this all, he made nothing.

He hummed a small tune to himself underneath his breath as they galloped. His horse didn't appear to mind the off-key hum, so he continued it. It was something to break the silence that he not only heard but _felt_ , the silence louder than all noises and heavier than all weights. Akatosh was tired of it being there.

He did stop humming, however, when he finally saw it- a cottage, surrounded by a picket fence and nestled between sparse trees, out by the side of the river. Akatosh's horse approached in tentatively, and he let her, having her leap over the tiny, broken fence surrounding the perimeter of the small yard of the cottage. It was all just weeds, weeds that had once been fresh harvest but only now showed rotten cabbages and tomatoes, things that made a rancid smell waft off into the cold air when one of his horse's hooves trampled over it. He shouldn't have been able to smell it from up on his ride, but he did, and wished he didn't.

Akatosh slid off his horse and tethered her to a tree, getting out his map and double checking where they were. He could see the map perfectly, and the Argonian had written something above the mark she had made to show him where to go- "Drakelowe", not that he could read it. He wasn't sure anymore, now. This cottage looked empty and abandoned, and was a good few hours away from Cheydinhal, the closest town nearby. Who in their right mind would live here? If anyone had used to, they most certainly wouldn't anymore.

 _No harm in checking_...

Akatosh strode up past the dilapidated garden, tripping over some overgrown vines and falling to the ground with a soft, surprised sound that got knocked out of his throat. His horse shifted nervously, but he got to his feet after the shock wore off, untangling his ankle from the vine and continuing on. It didn't hurt like it would have before. He just felt numb.

He knocked on the door. Much to his surprise, it didn't fall away at his touch. Akatosh didn't receive an answer, however, so he knocked again. Still, silence.

"Hello?" His voice was loud, too loud. It sent a shiver down his back unwarranted by cold. There was a moment, Akatosh seconds away from backing off and going back to his horse to abandon this trip, before he heard it; _"What does he want?"_

The Breton blinked at that. It was the most he could do at first. He blinked again, and then the corners of his mouth started to pull down, and he frowned, and then frowned harder. "He wants you to get the damned door!" At that, he slowly realized his own rudeness, rudeness he wouldn't have carried before, and a brief flash of apologeticness for it caused his frown to lessen. "P-please, I mean. Sorry. Please... open the door."

He didn't have a breath to hold anymore. He was anxious and waiting, but patient. At least, to a degree. An eternity could have passed and he wouldn't be any wiser until the door finally unlocked and opened, and then he was being pulled inside, the same door slamming behind him and making him jump by its loudness. The other side of the door, to say the least, was not exactly what he had expected. It was flush with lights, even when the open windows outside gave no indication of this, most likely due to an illusion spell of some sort. Furniture was decked inside the inside of the cottage, and the entire space had a cozy feel to it, one that made him feel warm inside despite the coldness of his pale flesh. He didn't say anything, keeping his quiet, but it was startling to him, to say the least.

The one who had forced him inside was the one who spoke, it being an elderly woman with bright and angry grey eyes that looked almost white, but she obviously wasn't blind, and as elderly as she seemed, the small woman obviously possessed some amount of strength to be able to tug him inside in the first place. She had a face that didn't seem like it could hold any sort of expression other than the anger creased on its features. "Can't a woman get some peace and quiet for once?" She was speaking quietly but with a voice that seemed loud, and he winced, but didn't answer for a moment. She kept her snow-kissed eyes on him; waiting, expectantly, and it took him a while to muster up words.

"I- I came here-"

"No? _Really_?" She was impatient, that much was obvious, but he flinched at the sarcasm nonetheless, and yet still held his tongue. "I don't think I would have noticed if you hadn't have said!" She looked unimpressed, and he hated it, but he had to remind himself that he wasn't there to impress her. She had opened the door for him after all, hadn't this woman? Even when it was very easy to infer that she wasn't a fan of people, judging by how elaborate this hiding place was.

"-for help." He finished the sentence lamely. She was quiet, then, considering, as if wondering why she hadn't scared him off yet.

"For what, then?" He stuttered on the words, before gesturing to himself, to his face, to his orange turned irises and sickly skin, to the nasty points of his teeth. Akatosh waited, but she didn't say a word. She was blind, then? This woman didn't appear to be besides her appearance, but he supposed he shouldn't really be one to judge by looks.

"I... um, I- I have-" He stuttered on the words, trying to remember. A part of him wanted to appear smart, intelligent, wanted to seem like he knew what he was doing, that he knew the full extent of what he had gotten into, wanted her help. "Por-porph-"

"Porphyric Hemophilia? You're one of _them_ , boy?" She cut him off just the same, and he nodded, before realizing he shouldn't, and answered with a "yes" before falling short. Akatosh's memory was awful, but he had tried. She huffed, then, but she waved him off, off into the direction of a cozy looking chair by a roasting fireplace. The fire didn't seem inviting to him, seemed like something he should stay away from, but he sat down nonetheless, and she put it out as if reading his mind and let the other lights in the house do the job of keeping them out of shadow. "What exactly makes you think I would know anything about that?"

She went to a section of the cottage that sanctioned as a cooking area of some sort, with fresh growing vegetables and fruits, along with many pots and pans. She got some water from a bucket and went back over, drank it herself, and sat down adjacent from him, all the while waiting for his answer. "Well... you're a witch, aren't you?" He had finally gathered that all himself, and judging by the way she stiffened, she hadn't expected it from him. He couldn't blame her. He did appear quite daft, he knew.

She finally sighed, shaking her head. "Oh, my dear! I gave up witchcraft long ago." She sighed again, as if to relieve stress, bad memories. He didn't say a thing. Soon enough, he was rewarded, as she continued talking. "But a cure for vampirism. That's something I haven't thought about in quite some time. Very challenging, and potentially dangerous." She paused, and before he could say anything, could assure he would do what it takes, she added; "If you do something for me, I'll help. How does that sound?"

He shrugged. "I guess." He didn't really expect these things to come for free. They never did. "What do I have to do?"

She cackled at that, but it turned into more of a giggle. A strand of her grey hair fell right into her eye, hair that was wiry and messy about her face and made him feel like it would cut his skin if he touched it, and she didn't even blink at the thing. The sight disturbed him very slightly, but enough to make him look away and have to resist the urge to move the hair for her. "I have my own interests- besides witchcraft, mind you- and occasionally require resources that are difficult for me to procure. Soul gems, for example."

He understood, or, at least, thought he did. "I can get you soul gems-"

"Five of them," she cut in. "Empty, of course, and in perfect condition." He faltered.

"Five?" Akatosh saw this as useless. Before, he would have agreed without patience. But now, he understood he was on borrowed time, and he didn't know if his skin would hold up to the sunset next to come. He had been hoping for a cure immediately, without fully realizing how foolish that was to hope for.

She snorted, then, nodding. "Yes, five. Five's a good number, don't you think? One gem for each finger on your hand! And truly, _your_ hand, unless you're like me-" And her hand she held up, then, with a crudely chopped off thumb, the sight quite a thing, especially paired up with her yellow smile and crazy gleamed eyes. He decided, then, that it was time to take his leave, and he let himself be shooed away, calling after him to remember her wish as he was pushed out into the night again, out into the lonely silence that crept up on him after the noise from the door slamming faded.

Maybe he wouldn't ask Tar-Meena for help anymore.

* * *

 

"Is this all you need?"

Akatosh was quiet, nodding soundlessly, and when the Argonian woman smiled at him, he didn't smile back. She took notice of this, and then frowned, but didn't say a word, even as he drew back from her the second he had stuffed the small sack bag she had given him in his pocket.

Akatosh already moved to leave after that. He had raced here on horseback all the way from Drakelowe, just to get here before the sun would rise. The Imperial City was gorgeous in the night, and he appreciated the way the enchanted magenta flames alight in the braziers that dotted the Arcane district didn't make him flinch away like any other sort of fire was beginning to, but he didn't have time to stay. And with Tar-Meena, whose eyes held care and concern and whose smile was genuine- he didn't want to stay.

"Hero." He flinched, and she noticed, and waited for him to stop. He did. They stood outside the steps to the University, letting the magickal fires light the night around them, but he didn't need them. He had figured that out of all the places he knew, the school for spellcasting scholars would provide soul gems for his quest, and while he could probably get them from anyone if he asked, he didn't think anyone but Tar-Meena would have answered his call in the middle of the night- no, in the couple hours that stretched before morning. She had been waiting for him, in fact, reading a book in the waiting lounge, as if expecting something like this. He had felt the deepest appreciation for that... and wished he hadn't.

"Don't call me that." His voice was short, rude, rude to this woman who had just given him a handful of expensive gems for free, who was helping him cure this disease he had brought on himself, who was doing this all without any want for any sort of reward. He was rude, and he didn't know why he was. He shouldn't have been, but he didn't regret it as much anymore, didn't care like he had the first time he had been short with her.

"I don't have anything else to call you by," she said softly, apologetically, as if he didn't know. "I have known you for over a year, now, since all that time ago. And I yet still don't have your name. I can't remember if you gave it to me or not."

"I don't have one," he said, finally, after a long, hesitant pause. "I don't need one." She didn't seem like she believed him. It wasn't technically a lie, but he relented. "There was... a man. He called me Akatosh. If you want to, you can." _I won't be seeing you again, anyway, if it can be helped._

She didn't answer back for a long, thoughtful moment, even as he grew more and more anxious by the second and the skies less and less dark. "Akatosh?"

He nodded, but winced. Akatosh thought she noticed, but was grateful she didn't make note of the reflex out loud. "I don't like it very much."

"I can tell." He didn't have a reply, so he nodded. "Did the Emperor give you it?" He steadied his gaze on her at he question, and she went on. "You said it was a man, and you seem to keep good compa-"

"Which one?" He broke her sentence before it was finished. "Which Emperor."

"Martin, Akatosh. For as short lived as it was, he was our Emperor, too, just as much as his father."

"I know." She looked at him quizzically, and eventually did he answer, but with another question. "What brought you to think it was him?"

She sighed, her long tail swishing in some sort of unease. She knew just as he did that dawn was coming. He wasn't ready to greet the new day. Still, she didn't stop the conversation, happy to get something out of him instead of shortness. "Vampirism causes bloodlust, not depression. It was no secret you both were close. No one mourned him as dearly as you did. We all watched the same day Martin died, how you brought a bouquet of flowers and set them at the feet of his statue. Some saw how badly you wept- you know how nosy the people here are. And everyone knows you were there when he died- the only one truly _there_ when he died, in the temple. Either you have a big heart, or a good reason for it to be heavier."

He looked away, purposely. He could tell when he was about to cry, and didn't want to. If he was going to, he wasn't going to let her see. "The death of our Emperor is a good reason to cry."

She was quiet, and then her head shook, disagreeing. "No, not someone who had only been in that position for a matter of minutes, an hour at most. Not someone who had been kept away in secret, only to be suddenly revealed as the bastard son of Uriel Septim days before his death. It's a good reason to panic, losing our only chance for a heir, but not a reason to cry as you did."

"He's not the only one I lost."

"But he's the one you cried for," she countered, but softly. "And he's the one you cry for now."

He looked towards her, suddenly, in shock. Slowly, a hand was raised to his cheek. He felt it, felt the tear that had trailed across his skin, the tear that had been numb to him before, the tear that tasted salty in his mouth. He was silent.

"Why?"

And then, he wasn't. All it took was for her to ask that, to ask that single, one word question, and his reserve broke, shattered, just like the Amulet had mere months ago. "Because-" He took in a deep breath, or he would have, if his lungs weren't dead. "-because I loved him, woman!" He got out the words, shouted them, and he knew some guards looked their way, but he didn't care. "I loved him!" He repeated the words, for her, for himself. "And he-" the faux breath he had pretended to hold in was gone, somehow leaving him emptier without it. "And he had loved me, too."

He knew more tears were streaming down his cheeks. He _knew_ they were, even if he couldn't feel them. Finally, she shook her head, and she backed away. No? _No?_   What in the Nine possibly gave her the _right_ -

"You misunderstand me," she finally murmured. Her voice sounded like a fairy's over his yell. "I meant to ask why he called you this, Akatosh."

It was his time, finally, to shake his head. Oh, he remembered. Martin had worshipped his Divine, his precious Akatosh, in that damned Chapel of his. It had been his repentance for when he had been a priest of Sanguine- his way of repaying his dirty deeds under worship of a Daedric Prince. Akatosh had meant the world to him, until the sack of Kvatch. The Breton couldn't blame him for questioning the Divinity of the gods after watching all those innocents burn to the ground with their homes and their lives. And with every day that had dragged on after that, more and more of Martin's faith went with them. But there was something that Martin had always believed in, someone, since the day they had met. Martin didn't want the name Akatosh to mean nothing to him, so he had given it to that person. And he had been happy to receive it when he had, to be Martin's hero, to be the person that would _always_ mean _something_ to him.

It only made him feel bitter now.

"It isn't your business to know." His voice was shaky, and she seemed taken aback. This wasn't fair to her, he knew it wasn't, he truly, truly did. He just didn't care anymore. "I have to go."

She made way for him, she was letting him, but she didn't want him to leave, and he knew that. "It wasn't your fault." He stopped, then, and looked back at her. "His death, Akatosh. I know you must think that, I know. _Trust_ me, trust me when I say that I do."

"I trust you."

She nodded, quickly, not wanting to falter in her words. "Then I know, I know that it couldn't have been your fault-"

"No," he cut in, and falter she did. "You don't know anything." And before she could argue still, he started to walk away, but she chased after him, and blocked his path. She saw how his muscles tensed, and the guards probably did, too, but she didn't walk away, standing her ground.

"You can't do this to yourself," she swore. "I've seen this in others, Akatosh, I've seen the light die in mens' eyes, young men like yourself. I've aided the Blades on many occasions, and for many years. I can tell when people start to shoulder blame they shouldn't, I can tell when they lose their hope. I don't- I can't let you disappear like I've seen so many before you do."

"Why?" It was his time to ask the question, less softly this time. " _Why_? Why do you care? Why!" It became less of a question and more of a scream, and he backed away still, further, like a cornered animal.

"Because I care about _you_ , Akatosh, and I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, I understand that. And I know I'm not the only one. You're our hero-"

"No." He said the word coldly, emptily. It made her flinch. "I'm not a hero."

"Akatosh-"

 _"Stop calling me that_!" The words were almost screamed, and they surprised himself. He felt his teeth elongate painfully, the sharp tips of what could only be fangs poking and tearing soft indents in the skin of his bottom lip. He didn't feel the pain. He felt his anger, making him shake, making him tremble, his eyes that burned brightly red. He was lucky he was turned away from the guards.

She didn't move. She didn't scream, she didn't draw back. Tar-Meena showed no fear. And when he turned again, letting his hands cover his face as he ran, she didn't chase after him, and only watched him flee through the gates.

* * *

 

The witch was waiting for him. He knew it, didn't doubt that fact. She was sitting outside, dressed in a gown made of stitched over rags, her hair brushed through and pinned in a bun. Her face was no longer old nor angry, but young, and beautiful, her hands catering to her dead garden and beginning to make it whole again.

It was day. The sun was yet to char his skin, but he didn't know for how long. The brightness felt disgusting, the sunlight heavy. He hadn't slept in days.

She didn't look up as he tethered his horse. She didn't look up as he walked towards her, jumping over the picket fence, only to trip and fall in the attempt instead. She didn't look as he got to his feet after a long moment, stumbling, shaking. He felt weak. She didn't care, and he liked that. He couldn't stand being around people that cared about him anymore.

"Gave up on witchcraft, huh?" It was a joke; he didn't really care. She only looked up at his words, and he handed the bag full of soul gems off to her. She took it, blinking in surprise. Her eyes were green, not grey nor white, and it was a beautiful color, but he hardly noticed until he took the time to really look at her and stop avoiding her gaze.

She got to her feet, and was somehow taller than he was. He recalled her being shorter than him when they had met yesterday, somehow. Maybe it was his memory that failed him, or a spell, or the fact that she had a posture to her delicate form instead of being half slouched over. "Your teeth are out," she noticed. He didn't look at her, didn't check. He knew.

"And your eyes." A hand was laid on his cheek. He winced and drew back, or tried to, but she grabbed his chin and he found that he couldn't. Her one grip was stronger than his entire effort to get away. "They're brighter than before."

Her pinky was pressed against an old scar on his cheek. Miscarcand. "I got you the gems."

"I know that, boy." He glared at her, then, slapping her hand, but she only moved it away in a second's time, and he ended up slapping himself. It didn't hurt, either.

"Then help me!" His voice was upset. Akatosh was upset. All the witch did was cackle at what she had made him do, at the emotions she had made him feel.

"I will, fool," she answered, chortling, pocketing the bag he had given her, the one Tar-Meena had given him. "Come on. In, in! We don't have time to waste!" Her voice went from floaty to urgent in a moment. He glared again, harder, but started to walk towards the entrance of the cottage all the same.

Finally, he spoke. "Then why do you continue to waste it?" He didn't know when he had gotten to be so rude. He wished he wasn't. He didn't like it. Akatosh hated his own anger, hated his own hate, but still hated.

"Because," she said, and she was idle as she spoke, watching him fumble with the door before opening, "It's not mine to waste." With that and a wink, she slammed the door behind them, and Akatosh was just beginning to comprehend the full extent of what exactly he was getting into.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, 7K-8K words in two days! Not too bad, right?
> 
> (I'm still sorry)


	6. Red Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RIP. (Follows 'Vampire Cure')

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will either be as dramatic as I tried to make it, or be absolutely, horribly bad. Tell me if its good? uwu Other than that, hope you enjoy!

All he felt was burning, and he screamed.

 

The scream tore itself out of his mouth, clawing up his throat and pushing past his lips. It could be heard for miles, washing over the forest, rustling trees as the creatures hidden in the woods stirred at his screech. The scream was followed by another, and then another, and he drew back, clenching his arm to his chest and trying to calm himself to prevent another wail.

 

Akatosh stared down at himself, stared down at his small, weak, crumbling form, down at the ragged clothes he wore, at the wool cloak covering him, at his hands, at his arm, his skin, _oozing_ … He looked down at what he was with sadness trapped behind his eyes, hot tears running down his cold, cold cheeks, and whether they were from pain or from misery, he didn’t know.

 

He waited until the forest around him had quieted down, watching as his burned and melted skin slowly patched itself together. It was a disgusting sight to him, making uncontrollable shudders race down his spine, and finally, he covered up his arm with the sleeve of his cloak once more. It felt raw against the rough cloth, and all he could manage was the softest sound of despair, raising his sleeve to his face to brush away the tears.

 

Akatosh tried this again, kneeling down in the withered grass. In front of him lay the crumbled remnants of an Oblivion Gate, long since closed, broken Daedric metal rising in jagged pillars buried deep into the ground and a soft orange glow coming from the base of the empty portal. Smoke rose off of the ruins, making a great ashy column that snaked far up into the sky, and he had been able to see it plainly from far out into the countryside. All around the Gate, tall blades of grass sprouted at his feet, colored in the dark shade of crimson.

 

This time, he made sure his sleeve didn’t slip down his arm like it had, tucking it down past his wrist. His stitched brown gloves covered his hands, two times the size of each finger and barely managing to cling to his skin as it was, but it grasped the bloodgrass and tugged. The plant was uprooted, and he held it in his trembling fingers, watching as blood rubbed off of the weed that oozed it and stained the rough material covering his palm. Akatosh’s pupils dilated, focusing on the soft red substance, watching it trickle down his hand, drip to the ground, and he shuddered again.  


Akatosh raised the blade of grass to his lips, and he shakily wrapped his mouth around its form, trying to suck away the liquid dripping off of it. The blood was cold, and against his tongue, tasted revolting, as burning as the sunlight to his skin had been moments before. It wasn’t human blood, nor was it animal’s, and he winced and drew back, another pitiful sound escaping him.

 

Akatosh stayed there, kneeled on the ground, unable to move, to find the will to want to. Tears built up behind the surface of his eyes once more. Instead of shedding them, he tucked the bloodgrass into his cloak, getting to his feet thereafter.

 

Immediately, his legs gave out underneath him, and he had to quickly grasp at one of the jagged edges stretching out from the pillars of Daedric metal to keep himself up. His knees shook and trembled, hands just as shaky, weakly clinging to support. He counted the seconds it took him to find his strength, and then he counted the minutes. Finally, Akatosh let go of his support, and clung to himself instead.

 

He felt as light as a feather, and just as weak. Akatosh’s bones may as well have been built brittle, and he felt as if they threatened to crumble with each moment, each movement. His skin was dry, and it felt papery, even to himself, only gaining texture when it hit a single ray of light, texture akin to melted candlewax.

 

Akatosh let out a scream, a loud, horrendous scream, louder than the one he had gave before, longer. He let it stretch into the silence and shatter it, let it travel over the woodlands and the mountains and raise into the sky. Akatosh screamed, and he screamed until his voice gave out, screamed until he couldn’t. When he was done, releasing his stress and torment as much as he could with the deafening wail, he felt some semblance of better.

 

* * *

  


_Knock, knock, knock_ _,_ went the door, with his knuckles against its surface.

 

“Argh!” Went the woman, behind that door, her voice a screech. Akatosh winced, and waited.

 

The door flew open, then, sending a gush of air against Akatosh’s cloaked features. His wrist was grabbed in a tight, tight grip, and the Breton was hauled inside the cottage without another word.

 

The same door slammed behind him, like it always did, and he was dragged to a familiar couch and pushed down into it, all done before he could blink. He looked up, and the crazy, vibrant pair of green eyes greeting him was a disconcerting sight to say the least.

 

He spoke before she could. “I brought them,” Akatosh said, knowing she knew what he would mean, and she did, like always, nodding and clicking her tongue. Her long strands of hair were messily pinned into a bun, a silken dress on her form. She was nothing like the old woman she had been when they first met, but he had only seen her twice before, so it wasn’t too jarring in the slightest.

 

Without talking, she got up again, dancing and humming a beautiful tune that sounded wretched in her high pitched tones. A few moments, and then she came back, holding a stone mug filled with steaming water and topped with a handful of tea leaves. It gave off a disgusting scent, but she drank it down, put the mug back, and ambled right over, plopping down roughly next to him.

 

He scooted back. The silence sept in, the cottage smelling old and dusty, making him sneeze. Akatosh didn’t say a word, however, waiting for her to speak. He knew that if he tried to, he would only be ignored.

 

“Well?” Her voice came suddenly, without a trace of warning, and he jumped. “Show me them, will you?” Akatosh nodded, pulling down the large, long hood of his cloak, reaching into the pockets inside of the garment. She had given it to him, knowing he would need it, and during the few weeks it had taken for him to get all the items she had asked of him, she had only proved correct.

 

As he rummaged, she spoke again. “Melisande.”

 

Akatosh glanced up. “What?” Soft puzzlement layered his features, and she clicked her tongue again.

 

“My name,” the witch said, soothingly, a smile taut on her lips. “Melisande, the witch. Glenmoril witch Melisande. Isn’t it a great name? Beautiful? Fitting for such a face as this one?” She gestured to her pristine features. Truly, she was quite lovely, but he knew it to be the work of old witchcraft, and knew how she looked inside, how she would have looked out. He didn’t reply, unnerved, and she tutted. “Oh, come off it, I wasn’t going to ask your name, I know you won’t tell. We’re talking about me, and only that.”

 

He nodded. “Good.” With that, he pulled out a bag and two clumps of plants. The bag smelled of garlic so strong it pinched his nose, and the bloodgrass was there, blades tied together delicately by string. Nightshade, too, with purple petaled flowers and red stems, smelling of sweet poison, was bounded together by a thin rawhide rope, and Melisande observed the ingredients with care.

 

“Where’d you get the garlic?” She asked the words curiously, asked about the most ordinary thing of the bunch. Akatosh shrugged.

 

“From some shop in the Imperial City.” He didn’t know the name. Akatosh still couldn’t read, and although he had asked for a shop that would sell alchemy ingredients and had been told the name to get there, his awful memory had buried it. She hummed again.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. The shopkeeper sold to you?” He glanced to her, unsurely.

 

“Yeah,” Akatosh murmured, “Why wouldn’t he? I have gold.”

 

Melisande cackled. “Your face, idiot! It’s pale as ever, and your eyes, that disgusting shade of red. You look starved and wretched, oh, but you’re lucky to still maintain some youth to your features, aren’t you. I’m sure it doesn’t feel like that at all, with your poor crinkly, papery skin. It falls apart whenever I look at it. You haven’t had a drop of blood, I can tell. Or am I wrong? I never am.” Akatosh frowned to himself, merely turning away from her.

 

“I kept my hood over my face. No one saw what was underneath.” She tilted her head, leaning in, eyes expectant. Finally, he relented. “No, I haven’t had any blood.”

 

The witch clapped her hands, almost joyously, excitedly. “And why is that? Oh, it’s all fine and well if you’re just too guilty to drink from a man, pretty thing you, but there’s other ways of getting proper nourishment. Animal blood, have you tried?”

 

Akatosh shook his head. “No. I’m not fast enough to catch an animal.”

 

Melisande raised a delicate, arching eyebrow, pouting her lips. “Well, I’ve got a solution for that! Just take a little stroll through the woods, that’ll do it. Wolves and bears’ll be all over you in a second. Oh, but I suppose you’re badly weak, hm? You’d probably keel over at a glare. Let me try, let me see.” She narrowed her eyes, then, into the most venomous glare she could muster, shooting daggers into his mind.

 

He stared back, and waited, and when Melisande stayed like this for too long, the Breton finally continued. “Please, I just want the potion.” She wagged a finger at him, reprimanding him for rushing her, and he felt annoyance crawl up his throat and make him have to bite back his tongue to keep the snide comments in.

 

Finally, she spoke again. “So, the cloak?” Akatosh nodded, silent. He was grateful for the gift, but would be more grateful if she hurried things up. “How did you get away with that? Aren’t you their precious Champion?” He seemed shocked, and she rolled her eyes with such violence that they disappeared into the back of her head for a moment. “Don’t think I didn’t know! I may live out in the woods, but I pay attention to current events! That, and some angry orange _thing_ opened up right outside my window a few months ago, it was quite bothersome. Had to stay in the inn for a while, I did. All those people in Cheydinhal are absolutely _mad_ about you, I have to say. Makes my toes tingle, you being so close.” She paused, then. “Well, no, not really. I’m much prettier.”

 

Akatosh crossed his own arms over his chest, growing more and more annoyed as this woman went on. “What’s next? For the potion? Is this it? Do I need more?” She was about to scold him once again, he could tell, and his fists clenched tightly. “By the Divines, woman! Listen!”

 

Melisande’s mouth gaped open like a fish’s, before it closed, clamping shut. Her expression was indignant but her eyes were amused, and Akatosh felt like he was losing this little game between them, even when he had gotten her to do what he wanted. He felt regretful for raising his voice, and he despised himself for it, but didn’t apologize. Not at all.

 

“Please.” His voice was much more gentle as he calmed himself down. “I need to know what happens next.”

 

The lady nodded, and she stood up, then, straightening out the skirt of her dress. Her four-fingered hand swiped at the items on the table and tucked them into her chest, an action he modestly looked away from, and then she was wandering off to the back of the cottage. It was uncomfortably quiet without her dreadful humming, and he let his mind wander until she returned.

 

“Here.” She gestured for Akatosh to hold out his hands, and he did. In them, a simple, even slightly dull dagger was placed. It was silver. There was nothing extraordinary about this blade, and he didn’t know what to do with it, looking up at her questionably. She went on. “With this, I need you to extract a man’s blood.”

 

His eyes widened. “What?”

 

Melisande gave out her cackle again. “I jest, I jest!” He felt slightly calmer but all the more confused, until, that was, she continued. “An Argonian’s blood I need, not a man’s. Close but not at all close, yes.”

 

Akatosh frowned. _“What_?” She laughed, but at him, at his surprised and silly expression, and she took that moment to pinch his cheeks painfully. Akatosh had to make a conscious effort not to bite off her remaining fingers.

 

“The blood of an Argonian, silly boy. Have you lost your ears? No? Then _LISTEN_!” She shouted, her voice low and deep, bellowed inside the thin cottage. He jumped, then, and the knife clattered to the ground, but indeed, he did listen. Melisande stood there, red faced from the force it had taken the petite woman to shout with, and then she grinned brilliantly, bending down and picking up the dagger to set it back into his hands.

 

“Now, then,” she went on, sitting down elegantly beside him. “The next ingredient for your potion requires their blood, the blood of one of them. You needn’t kill them, ‘course not. Just slice one open and get the precious juices inside. The knife is rich with an enchantment to absorb the blood you capture, and I may extract it from that little dagger later, so take care not to lose it. All I need is a drop.”

 

Akatosh took this all in, registering it slowly. Finally did he nod. “Okay.” The words were quiet. “Okay.”

 

Melisande gave him yet another smile, just as brilliant as the last. “Well, then,” the witch excitedly whispered, her tea-smelling breath hitting his face, “Go on your way.”

 

* * *

 

  


His hands were dry and creased, and it hurt to even clench them. He counted each worn in line on each small finger, looked at the dirt kept hard-packed under his nails, looked at the soft calluses and the way they trembled. Akatosh had taken days of days and even longer, weeks, large chunks of time, just to be able to hold up and wield more than a shortsword in them. Only his Daedric blade had been light enough to hold and had brought him honor to use, but it had died in the hands of another.

 

He missed Eldamil.

 

Their time together had been short, he knew. But that whole realm, Mankar Camoran’s Paradise- oh, how the memories burned in the back of his mind. Akatosh couldn’t dare forget the beautiful world, shaped to pure perfection, and even as morbid as it truly had been, traveling it with that other elf had been an inspiring adventure. Akatosh, as he went against Camoran; Akatosh, as he gave out his speech, to protect Tamriel and all her people, her glory; Akatosh, swearing to always be their hero, to be _Martin’s_ hero-

 

“Akatosh?”

 

The Breton gritted his teeth at the name. He hated it, despised it, resented that title more than he thought he was capable of disliking anything at all. But when he spoke, he made sure it was calmly, not letting the words leave his mouth until the fleeting spike of anger he had felt had passed. “Thank you.”

 

Tar-Meena, taking a seat beside him, seemed quizzical. “For what, my friend?”

 

“For coming.” He ignored what she had called him, ignored everything else but his hands, still keeping his gaze right down at his palms. His hood was let down, and the moons were up, Masser trying to swallow Secunda as they chased each other in the slowest race across the night.

 

She nodded, then, understandably. “I wouldn’t say no to the hero of Kvatch.” Her smile was warm and her words were, too, but all he felt was cold.

 

Akatosh didn’t say anything to that, simply pulling the silver dagger out from his robe. She didn’t back away, she didn’t move. Tar-Meena stared at the polished weapon, and it caught some falling moonlight and winked back at her. “I need your blood.”

 

Finally, that elected some amount of surprise. He wasn’t surprised himself, what with the way he had worded that proposal. “For what reason?” She wasn’t denying, and he knew that even if he didn’t say a single word to answer her with, she would willingly give him what he requested. Akatosh couldn’t fathom how truly, truly kind this woman was, and by all the Nine, he wished a part of him didn’t hate her for it.

 

He explained it to her, about how Melisande needed the drop of blood for his cure and how the knife would take it, with some bizarre enchantment or another. Tar-Meena listened carefully, and seemed even intrigued, but all the same, she nodded and smiled. The woman pulled back her sleeve, tucking it up behind her shoulder. Her scales were of beautiful hues, and glimmered in the soft lights of the stars above them. In the underside of her arm, he could see the rough skin, and she turned that side towards him for Akatosh to cut.

 

“Do be careful.” They both knew the risk, and knew it well. But Akatosh, as hungry as he was for something so _disgusting_ of him to crave, had faith he could control himself. Just a drop of blood was all he needed, and then he could be on his way and closer to getting rid of this curse.

 

Akatosh waited for his own hand to steady before he let the edge get close to her, and he pressed the soft, dull end against what passed as her skin. She was patient all this time, and the night quiet, and when he pressed harder with his fingers still wrapped around handle of the dagger, letting it dig deeper down, she didn’t give out so much as a flinch.

 

Steadily, he trailed the knife down, letting it scrape along her arm. Akatosh didn’t know if he had gone deep enough, couldn’t tell, and when he lifted the blade, he could confirm that he hadn’t, only managing to draw a pale line where he had meant to mark with red instead.

 

Tar-Meena didn’t say a word, patient. Again, Akatosh lifted the blade, setting it down on her arm. He didn’t try to drag the cut out along it, but merely attempted to prick at her skin. The end was too dull, and it did nothing.

 

“You don’t need to be too careful,” she reminded, and his hand clenched around the hilt of the silver dagger. “Don’t worry, I can take it. Best to make sure you’re not stranded out here after dawn.” He shakily nodded, shakily breathed an empty sigh, but his hand wasn’t shaky in the slightest as it came down again.

 

This time, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t hold back. The knife cut through her flesh, and immediately, it seemed to gleam, as if to tell him that was all the knife needed to absorb. Akatosh was about to draw back, moments from doing so, and then he froze.

 

 _That smell_ …

 

Akatosh’s hand starting shaking hard at the scent that wafted into the air, one so incredibly alluring that he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t begin to put words to how attractive it was to his senses. It was a second, maybe two, before his shaky hand was cutting down, and a jagged line was sliced across the length of her arm, blood spilling out of the wound.

 

She drew back in astonishment, in pain, crying out as she clutched at her arm. For a moment, his mind flashed with fear. Fear of himself, fear of her, of her hating him. An apology started to stumble from his lips, to trickle out from his voice like her blood was to her skin, before the smell came once more, but stronger.

 

It was her. Of course it was her, it could have only been. Akatosh didn’t feel surprised, not at the discovery, not at himself. He wanted to be closer to it. He wanted to do more than just smell it, he wanted to _taste_ -

 

Tar-Meena was knocked down to the ground, where she let out another cry. He kept her pushed down, and he found strength, strength in the adrenaline pumping through him that he hadn’t noticed until he found the ability to keep her pinned. His fangs were cutting holes in his lips, tearing at the skin, tearing up his eyes, and- and he didn’t care! He didn’t care anymore! Out of all people, Akatosh deserved to cry!!

 

“I’m so sorry.” Those tears were running down his cheeks, giving his cold skin warmth once more. “I’m so sorry, Tar-Meena, I’m so sorry.” These were the words he was supposed to say after he got up from her, after he helped her up, after he gave her a healing potion of some sort, after all these things he didn’t do at all. He repeated the apology, again and again, choking it through his tears, and they spilled out on her own cheeks as he looked down at her.

 

She was quiet, letting him cry, watching him with the most sorrowful eyes. He didn’t understand it. “Why?” He asked this of her again, his hands going to her shoulders. _“Why_?” Akatosh shook her thin shoulders violently in his own tight hands, and another cry escaped her lips, but it was quieter, and her eyes closed. They both knew, stranded out in the back of the Arcane University and in the dead of night no less that only their ears would be the ones to hear her screams.

 

“I don’t understand w-what you ask of me.” Her voice was as shaky as his hands were, and he finally let go of her shoulders, trying to grab at her wrists again to hold them down. He latched onto her arms instead as she flailed them, and his hand was coated in warmth.  Sticky, red warmth. He didn’t know why he was doing this. Akatosh didn’t question himself. He couldn’t let go of her, he couldn’t move away. More than anything he had ever wanted, he wanted _this_ , and he was breaking, tearing at the seams at this realization.

 

He asked again, coughing out the words. “Why are you letting me cry? Why aren’t you crying, Tar-Meena? Why aren’t you _crying_?” His cries grew louder, and his voice was desperate, but when she looked up at him, it was with her own watery gaze, and he took in a breath that he couldn’t keep, letting his voice get stuck in his throat and watered down by sobs.

 

“You deserve the tears.” He was clenching harder to her arms, and the blood oozed out of the cuts painfully, covering his papery skin. “You deserve the tears more than anyone I have ever known.”

 

“But not you?” Akatosh tugged at her arm, and tugged hard, hearing her screech, his ears swallowing the sound. Tar-Meena shook her head, her struggles growing weaker and weaker. She could kill him with her spells. She could try harder to escape. She could, she truly could, and he knew it, believed it, had faith that it was true. She could save herself, she could, but she just- she just wasn’t _trying_ to! This was _her_ fault! It was all her _fault!_

“No.” She said the word simply, softly, and she was calm. He wanted to tear the calm expression from her face. He wanted her to scream again. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand his wants, didn’t understand this. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he just leave? Akatosh didn’t want to do this, he knew he didn’t want to. Why wasn’t she trying _harder_?

 

His nails were digging into her skin, trying to tear at it, wanting to feel the heat of the liquids spilling out of her wounds on his corpse flesh. “Why not? T-tell me why not, tell me!”

 

He screamed the words, he sobbed them. Tar-Meena’s eyes were closed again, and they were closed so he wouldn’t see the pity in them, just the acceptance on her features. She knew that he wouldn’t want to be pitied.

 

“Akatosh-”

 

He didn’t hear her response, didn’t listen. His vision was blinded with rage, anger white hot, crawling down his neck, his spine, ripping out screams from his lips. “Don’t use that _name_ ! _Don’t use that name_!”

 

His teeth went down, clinging to her arm. She spasmed, she cried, the barest trace of a spell starting to tingle around her fingertips. He was desperate, desperate the moment her blood reached his lips, the moment it crawled down his throat. It made him crave more, and Akatosh didn’t want this to be taken away from him.

 

His hand went to her chest, and then it faltered, drawing back. He reached to the knife, blindly, still laying next to them both. Akatosh raised it and brought it down, but he faltered, stilling his hand moments before it reached her.

 

A spell of flames flew through her palm, firing at his form. It burned, as fire always did, but to him, it was dreadful, eating away at his clothes, at his skin, at everything he was. He screamed and screeched, spasming in pain, and the fire died in a moment, a louder scream swallowing his own.

 

Tar-Meena had stopped moving underneath him, and it took him a few moments to comprehend why. His hand had been brought down without his control, piercing her chest, lodged in her heart newly unbeating. Akatosh stared, stared down at her eyes, reflecting the sky in glossy orbs, and then down at her form, at the blood gushing from it, tainting the cloth of her robes.

 

Akatosh tore the dagger from her heart. A whole new wave of blood gushed from it, and all he could smell was the scent it gave. It coated his hands, his clothes, and his mouth, as he brought his head down to drink.

 

“Don’t use that name...” His words trembled, shaking, hanging in the air above him, above Tar-Meena’s corpse. “Don’t use that name…” He repeated the words, as choked as they were, struggling to break from her blood, from his tears.

 

_Don’t use that name._

  



	7. Unfulfilled Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saditosh. Oh, and a random Lucien appears! (Follows the beginning- somewhat- of "A Knife In The Dark".)

Akatosh didn't think he had ever been more of a wreck in any other time of his life.

He stared at his lack of a reflection in the deep waters of a glimmering pond, lit by moonlight. It and him were surrounded by the tall and thick trees of the Cyrodiilic forest, and when he touched the waters, his skin felt even colder than it was. Cupping his hands, he brought the water to his face, the freezing liquid bringing him some awareness as it graced his skin.

"What have I done?" He murmured the words to himself, whispered them again, mouthed them, felt the ghosts of sentences unspoken brush past his lips and out to the empty forest clearing. He was shaking. He hadn't stopped shaking.

The world offered no answer to him, but it didn't matter. He already knew. Akatosh felt strong, for once, could hold himself up, could move- he wasn't weighed down by his weakness. And it was all because he has drank the blood of perhaps the kindest woman he would ever meet, all because she said his name.

Disgust. Disgust couldn't even describe how he felt about himself. Mortified. Shocked. Hate.

"I hate you." And when he spoke the words in rough, guttural Daedric, he spoke them to the only person by the pond. The only person they could hear those words. The only one who could understand them.

He didn't know when they suddenly came, but then there were tears, thick, heavy tears, filling up the expanse of his eyes. Akatosh tried with all his might to keep them in, tried hard to keep them from falling. And yet, despite his best efforts, he watched as his tears cascaded down his cheeks and fell into the waters of the pond, disturbing its calamity with little ripples across its surface. The silence filled with the sound of his cries, and his vision blurred, was growing darker, spinning around him and sucking him into the darkest as if his own misery was a vortex that was pulling him in.

Akatosh had ran, he had ran like a coward. He had felt his newfound strength, had found his speed, and the world had blurred around him as he had fled from the corpse of the woman he murdered. He didn't know if it was all blurred because of this damned curse increasing his senses, his capabilities, all for a price, or simply because of the overwhelming shock, the shock that was beginning to fade. The shock that replaced itself with panic, as he knew what this feeling was. It was panic, fear, horror, and he didn't have a single thing anymore to keep him rooted.

That had all been within the hour. He had ran, and he had come here. Here, out in the middle of the woods. Akatosh was strong, but felt weak. He couldn't even muster up enough strength to wash the blood away, wash away the crimson on his skin.

"What would Martin think?" He asked this of himself, interrogated. "What would Martin say to you? What would he say to this?" He choked the words out between sobs, but kept his voice even, full of anger, full of hate.

But Martin wouldn't say anything. Martin was gone.

Akatosh started to cry harder, gripping onto the cluster of rocks by the lake to keep himself balanced. His wet hands slipped on them, and he slipped, too, splashing into the pond waters. It wasn't deep at all, and only half of his body had gone in, but the utter coldness of the pond shocked him, and he couldn't even think to pull himself out. He sobbed harder, water filling his mouth, his lungs, choking and spluttering, the coldness so intense it burned. When he pushed himself out, he was drenched in cold and shivering, spitting and throwing up the water with his tears. It hadn't drained him of air, as air was a commodity he didn't need, but it drained him of strength, and he curled up by the side of the pond, atop hard rocks that pinched at his form.

His eyes started to grow heavy. He knew the feeling, he knew the day must be approaching. Dawn was coming, once again, and he was never ready to greet the new day.

Akatosh wished he had fulfilled his promise. With all his heart, he wished he had. He wished he had stayed good. He wished he had stayed good for Eldamil. But Eldamil had helped him, he had turned his life around, he had become a hero in Paradise. Was there any forgiveness for Akatosh? For turning into this disgusting filth of a monster? For murdering Tar-Meena, when all she had ever done for him was help?

How could there be? Eldamil had saved all the trapped souls in Paradise. Eldamil had saved Akatosh. Eldamil had made it possible to save the word. And Akatosh... he couldn't even save Martin.

And there it was. Another promise he had wished he kept. When he had been riding on his horse to Cyrodiil, with Martin, Martin in his brilliant golden armor, looking like a Divine himself. When they had been on their way to light the Dragonfires, traveling in the night with only the stars to light their path. Martin had asked him what would happened if he died, and Akatosh had promised that if Martin were to die, Akatosh would follow him into the Void.

But here he was. Still alive. And he wished more than anything that he wasn't.

Akatosh weakly curled up by the side of the pond, and he let his eyes fall, hoping by some chance that the sun that was sure to come if he were to fall asleep here would allow him to fulfill at least one of the promises he had broken.

* * *

"You sleep rather soundly for a murderer."

At those words, he barely shifted. In fact, as they had woken him from his dazed dream, he didn't even know if they had been said, or had simply served the meaningless murmurings of his dream. Akatosh didn't even comprehend the words at first, didn't truly hear them, but when he did, a cold feeling ran down his back and made him shiver.

He pushed himself up. The sun was out, shining over the trees, but when it touched his skin, it didn't burn. It didn't bring him any warmth, but it didn't burn. Akatosh didn't know if he understood this curse- or rather, he knew that he didn't.

"That's good. You'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose."

And then, there was that face. That face, that face that he should recognize, the face that felt familiar to him. A pair of poised, smiling lips, dark, dark brown eyes, maybe even black- he couldn't tell in his dazed vision- and hair, pulled tightly into a low ponytail behind, a robe, a robe-

There it was. "Thief." He whispered the words, croaked them. A frog had better vocals than him.

He got a raised eyebrow in response, a chuckle. This stranger was an entirely new person without his hood obscuring beautiful features. And Akatosh did in fact recognize that face as beautiful, even if all he wanted to do was turn away from it and hide.

"Murderer." A shiver, racing along his spine like electricity. It didn't stop there. "Killer. Taker of life, harvester of souls-"

"Stop!" It wasn't an order, but a plea. His voice was full of desperation, and only that. Akatosh could feel tears beginning to collect in his eyes once more. "P-please... Please stop." His voice wavered, grew weak, died in his throat.

A chuckle. "Oh, I see." The man's voice sly. "You regret killing her, don't you?"

Akatosh choked on his own dead voice, still wallowing in the pit of his throat, and he found he couldn't say a thing at all. His eyes seemed to convey the words for him, and the man took all he needed from Akatosh's responding silence. "You do."

He found his voice and forced it out, coughing as he did so. "H-how-?" It was the extent of what he could manage, just a vague, one-worded question, but his thief understood.

"How would I know?" Akatosh nodded. "It's not so much of a mystery when word of a dead mage found in the gardens of the Arcane University gets out. Especially when that dead Argonian woman was said to be attacked from a vampire, judging by all the gory blood- or, should I say, lack of it- and ever so suspicious bite marks. And then I'm sent here, to talk to a sleeping, bloodied vampire in the woods. It's easy to put together a puzzle when all the pieces are so nicely laid out, wouldn't you agree?"

Everything he said sounded so sly. "I don't have anything to say to you." His words were still weak, but they lost their stutter and stammer and managed to hold themselves up without waver. He didn't know if it would do him any good, and judging by the returning chuckle, it didn't.

"That's just fine. I have plenty to say." And yet, before he could, Akatosh was pushing himself up, was getting to his feet, standing, his arms wrapping around his own quivering form.

When he spoke, it was with faux anger, and even he could hear the undertone of anxiety hiding behind his shouts. "What are you doing here?" His anxiety bubbled over to anger, too, and then he was glaring. "Who even are you? What business could you possibly have with me? Just leave!" His hands clenched tightly into fists by his sides, his teeth gritting against each other, and all the man did was smile.

"Lucien." He said the words calmly, resting his gloved hands in his lap. He had been kneeling by Akatosh's sleeping form this whole time, and didn't stand when the Breton did. "I am Lucien Lachance." A name to the face. Akatosh found it fitting, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was grateful Lucien didn't ask for Akatosh's name in return.

Akatosh clenched his fists tighter, forcing some of the anger to bubble off. He could almost imagine steam coming from his ears and nose and mouth as the anger left him. "And what are you doing here? Why are you here at all? What, watching me sleep?" He had a certain vulnerability to his eyes that he knew was there, so Akatosh closed them, if only for a second.

Lucien revealed nothing as he smiled, waiting patiently for Akatosh to grasp some sort of semblance of patience, and once Akatosh's glare subsided, he finally spoke. "I am a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood."

The Breton blinked at the words. He could tell they held some sort of weight to them, but he didn't know what that weight was. Finally, it clicked- somewhat. "A- the- like the Thieves Guild-"

"No, no, not at all. The Dark Brotherhood holds itself much higher than that assemble of common thieves."

"But you stole from me!"

"That is correct." Lucien tucked a single, rebellious strand of black hair behind his ear, one that had broken away from the conformity of his tight ponytail. He didn't explain himself at all as he went on. "As I was saying. Your work, your death craft, pleases the Night Mother. And so, I come to you with an offering. An opportunity..." He trailed off, slightly, considering the words he might say, might say to persuade this lost, sad Breton, still wavering on the verge of tears and the verge of anger. "To join our rather unique family."

Akatosh froze at the word.

Family.

Lucien seemed to know he had gotten to Akatosh, now. "Now please, listen carefully. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There, you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete."

His mind went blank. "You w-want me to kill?" I cracked, just like Akatosh was, cracking and splitting apart at the seams. "You want me to kill again?" It made sense well enough. A group of assassins. That's about as much Akatosh knew about the Dark Brotherhood, that they were a group of assassins. And how else would you get into that group? By killing. It made sense, and Akatosh didn't know what he had been truly expecting, but he didn't take the question back.

Lucien smiled at him, just smiled, his smile a half-smirk and his eyes trickling with amusement. "I told you to listen closely. Or should I repeat myself?"

Akatosh frowned in response to his smile, and he shook his head, hugging himself closer. He watched as Lucien finally stood, dusting off his dark black robe and working out its wrinkles. "I will find you when the job is done, bearing the love of your new family." Akatosh opened his mouth, about to release a string of words, but they died as his mouth was covered by a single, slender finger.

Lucien was now in front of him, making their height difference quite well known as Akatosh looked up to meet his gaze. An unreadable expression had filtered through Lucien's dark eyes, and Akatosh couldn't tell what it was. "You're all alone." The words were murmured, and the taller man's smile had gone by now.

He nodded his head, but didn't speak. Akatosh tried to back away from the hand, but another hand grabbed his wrist, latching onto it, holding it in place. Akatosh could have broken from the grasp if he wanted to, but he didn't, staying rooted in place.

"Don't you hate it, little killer?" Lucien's voice had turned into something soft, and with his rumbling and deep tones, it sent a shiver down Akatosh's spine. "Being alone."

He nodded. Akatosh didn't say a word, but he nodded, and the hand over his mouth went to his cheek instead. It was still gloved, but Akatosh wondered if his skin would have been soft, the leather of the glove cupping his scarred cheek, holding it in his palm. "How can you face anyone again, after what you've done? How can you bare to look at a single person once more? You, you grand hero, going out to rescue and protect these people, yet no one was there to rescue that mage from you last night. What if it happens again? What if you kill again?"

Akatosh's dead heart sank deep into his gut. He hadn't gotten the knife, he had forgotten it back at the scene, the knife that was ought to capture Tar-Meena's blood. He could always go back to Melisande, he could tell her what had happened, and- and try to figure something out. He could try. But, at the same time, he could kill that witch, too. Akatosh... Akatosh was a danger to everyone.

Lucien watched him for a moment longer, but broke Akatosh from his thoughts as he continued. "And even if there's some way you can go back to your normal life. What's there, waiting for you, that's so appealing? Your loneliness? Your solitude? You don't have to have Porphyric Hemophilia to know that vampires die in the sun. Yet you were sitting out here, sleeping, waiting to burn. The first night after feeding, your skin is strong enough to resist the sun's rays, which is the reason you stand before me now. You must not be living a happy life if you surely tried to stay out here without knowing that knowledge. And it was just as easy to draw that conclusion from the first time we met. I can't even recall if you smiled once during the entirety of it, but perhaps that's just a fault in my memory coming into play. What do you think?"

Akatosh was little more than speechless. Nothing that he could possibly say came to mind at that moment, not until a while of sluggishly mulling it over. "How will killing someone fix all of that?"

Lucien finally smiled again, shaking his head. "It will not fix a thing. But it can give you something. A family, a home. Things you don't have. People to care for you, people who won't care about what you've become. There's a fellow vampire in the sanctuary I am in charge of, in fact. You'll find only help there, only acceptance, things you won't get from anywhere else in this province. You'll have our love." The pad of his thumb rubbed soothing circles against Akatosh's cheek, Lucien's eyes never leaving his. He genuinely seemed to want this for Akatosh, genuinely seemed to care.

He felt his eyes brimming with tears again. Akatosh was considering it, was considering murdering another man, going down deeper into this path he had created for himself, and he hated it. "I- I don't know."

Lucien nodded. "Consider my offer. I will know if you fulfilled it, and when you have. And if this is the last time we see one another..." He pulled his hand away from Akatosh, and instead, moved to his robe, which fashioned as a cloak when undone. Underneath, he was dressed in some sort of strange, dark armor, but Akatosh didn't comment on it, not until the cloak was draped around his shoulders.

He gaped. "Why do you give me this?" Akatosh yet didn't take it off. It was... warm. He had almost forgotten what warmth felt like.

Lucien chuckled that same way again. "A parting gift. Perhaps you can give it back to me, next time we meet." And he started to turn away, to leave it at that, but Akatosh called out to him, and Lucien turned to listen.

"What- what about my bag? With all my things you stole?"

Lucien appeared surprised at the question, before he smiled. "Perhaps that can be another parting gift, once we meet again." Akatosh was about to yell out and say how they were his possessions to begin with, to do something about his stolen things, but then Lucien merely melted into the forest and disappeared, leaving Akatosh behind in the clearing more empty than it had been before.

He sat down at the water's edge, cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and Akatosh stayed there in silence, wondering to himself when this would all be over with, and wishing that it was already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in getting this up. I'm dealing with some medical problems that have made it difficult to keep up Fanfiction. I'll try to keep up the updates as much as I can, but I'm sorry for any delay in them :3 Thank you for sticking by all this time! It means so much. <3


	8. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down. Well, again. This really isn't a happy sequel. (Continues "A Knife in the Dark").

"Well I be a spotted snow bear, a customer!"

The inn was two stories tall with a main room packed with empty tables, rugs thrown on the ground in an attempt to make it look more cozy and a single large fireplace casting light over the space. It was thick with the scent of dust and ale, but both sensations were overwhelmed by the salty taste only his tongue could grasp lingering in the air, the smell of blood blocking all else out, both senses coming from the man who had shouted out at him gleefully the second he had stepped inside.

He had winced at the words before registering their friendliness, and yet he didn't look up, keeping his gaze down. Lucien's robe was a drenched weight on his form. The storm outside could be heard with its occasional claps of thunder ringing out against the sky, and the downpour of rain water had left him a freezing mess. He was colder than cold could be, but that wasn't the reason his hands were shaking.

His boots made squishing sounds as they stepped across the ground, his walking uneven and strange. Akatosh took a seat at the bar, hands grasping onto his damp sack cloth pants as if the fabric would offer him some sort of emotional support. "I'm looking for a man called Rufio."

There was silence, a brief pause. His voice was just as shaky as his hands, cracky and frail. Akatosh sounded like he hadn't had a drop of water in years. In truth, he had, but no matter how much he drank, it never got rid of the parched feeling of his throat. It was disgusting, knowing what would sate it.

He... He hated himself so much.

"Rufio?" The barkeeper's voice was a loud thing, breaking through the heavy fog of thoughts in his head. It sounded like it was bellowed right from his large gut. "What'dya need'im for?"

Akatosh didn't answer, clutching harder to his pant sleeves. He felt like he was going to throw up, but there wasn't anything in his stomach. The world was starting to spin, dots swimming in his vision, and he felt like he should be gasping for air with how tight his chest was becoming, pressing itself closer and closer to its center, his heart-

A slam. He jumped, flailed, nearly fell. Quickly grabbing onto the edge of the countertop, he steadied himself, head snapping up to finally meet the innkeeper's eyes. They were a startling blue, glimmering above a wide smile, and the thing that had been slammed down in front of him was a mug full of beer. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming right under his nose. "You look like ye can use this," the man chuckled, going back to cleaning some dishes with a rag dirtier than the plates and cups they scrubbed.

He looked down at the beer, but didn't touch it. "I have business with him." The words came at an awful delay, but at least he got them out.

The other man, who, by his giant muscle structure and dirty blond hair, Akatosh perceived to be a Nord, just chuckled heartily. "And _I_ barely have any business. Ever! We got plenty o' rooms if ye want one. Ain't nobody here 'cept old Rufio, but I 'pose, if ye were trudging out on the roads in that bitch of'a storm, ye already knew that!"

Akatosh's hands encircled the mug he had been given. It wasn't chilled, but his hands were. "How's he been?" He croaked out the words, slowly raising the mug to his lips, taking a tentative sip. It didn't affect him at all, as if it were water but even more bland, and it felt almost painful crawling down his throat. Everything he ate was a chore, to the point where he hardly ate or drank anymore. He didn't even know if he needed to. He only knew one thing he needed, and it was something he wouldn't let himself have.

Here Akatosh was, pretending to have a good, clear conscience, right as he asked some man about the person he was sent to murder.

Pathetic.

"Rufio?" Akatosh hadn't set down the beer, it still held up in his hands, his eyes staring at the surface of the drink. "The old codger's been living here for a couple of weeks now. If you ask me, he's hiding something. But what do I care? He pays his tab."

_If you ask me, he's hiding something._

There had to be a reason someone was paying for this man's life to end. Especially an old man, as he got the impression, who would be ending on his own soon enough. That was the only thing keeping Akatosh going. Maybe he could end up doing a good deed, maybe he's killing a bad man. And he does that, and then he- he has a family again.

Is that how it worked? Lucien made it sound so simple. How they would be waiting for him with open arms. And if he didn't like this, he could just back out, whenever he wanted. No one was forcing him to do anything. Akatosh could get out of this situation whenever he wanted to.

"I'd like to visit him."

A snort. "His room is downstairs, in what I like to call the Private Quarters. Use that hatch in the floor over there." Akatosh looked up as the man gestured, and he found the hatch, sure enough, in a secluded area surrounded but untouched by rugs. "Jus' don't expect a warm reception," he continued, and Akatosh said nothing at all, standing and setting the barely touched beer back on the counter.

Kneeling as he got to the hatch, he reached out with a shaky hand, his trembling fingers grabbing onto the handle and opening it up after a few missed attempts. It creaked out rather loudly, a wooden ladder falling and reaching the ground below. He turned away from the hatch and slid his legs down until they settled on a wooden rung, starting to descend the ladder until his feet hit the ground and he was able to steady himself.

The latch closed without any warning, and he jumped five feet into the air at the sudden sound, clutching at his chest where his dead heart lay. The basement was stretched out into a long hallway lit by torches, with two wooden doors that belonged to the same room. It must have been a sizable room, too, and it was so secluded that he couldn't even hear the storm outside. Completely soundproof. At least if there was screaming, it wouldn't able to be heard. Although, in truth, if anyone was going to be screaming, the chances were that it would be him.

He tried to take in a deep breath to steady himself, but he couldn't hold it in, couldn't breathe. After a few moments of staring at a closed door, his hand reached out to open it, and Akatosh stepped inside.

He had been expecting the man to be asleep or something of the like, seeing as it was rather late into the night. It might have even been dawn, but Akatosh couldn't tell with the storm. But no- instead, the old man was sitting in his bed, reading a dusty old tome, and at the sound of someone entering his room, he raised his head, giving Akatosh a quizzical look.

"Who are you?" He demanded the words, and Akatosh simply stared, too caught up in the moment to answer. There was a deep, empty look in his eyes, and it unnerved Rufio, his wrinkled fingers clutching at the book in his grasp. "What do you want? I ain't done nothin'!"

Akatosh stared for longer, before slowly, he reached into his robe, sliding his dagger out the folds. Rufio's eyes darted to the weapon for a split second, and as soon as he saw it, the book was dropped and he ran, ran with more dexterity and speed expected of a man his age, completely catching Akatosh off-guard.

The elderly Breton didn't even attempt to run out of the room, but instead cowered in a corner after dropping to his knees, holding his arms over his face. He was shaking, and Akatosh's heart cracked, just at the pure fear Rufio held, fear of him. "Oh, no, please! I can pay you! Name your price! Anything, anything! Please, just let me live!" He choked on a sob, crying out the words, and that crack grew until it shattered his heart and left a painful aching in his chest.

Akatosh stood there for the longest time, watching this old man cry, before he spoke, walking over. Each step made Rufio cower more and more, fidgeting and covering his face and crying even harder by the passing seconds, but Akatosh didn't stop. He got down in front of the man, kneeling before him and hiding his blade behind his back, more for him than for Rufio.

"Haven't you done something to deserve this?" He finally asked this of the man, his voice even, unlike his quivering hands holding onto the knife out of view. "Anything at all? Anything that would cause someone to want you dead?"

He yelled out in desperation, clutching at the few remaining strands of his greying hair. "No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me?"

Akatosh held on harder to the knife. When he spoke again, there was anxiousness in his tone, paired with anger, but it was anger at himself. Why was he still doing this? He should have walked away by now! He should have!

"What?" He stood up, over the man, casting him in his shadow, a shadow that flickered and wavered in the cackling lights of torches. "What did you do?"

When he spoke, his ears had to pry the words out in between all the sobbing. "She struggled! I told her to stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!"

His eyes widened, his mouth gaped. It took him moments to process the words, and when he did, his mouth tightened, as did his chest. " _She_? Who is she? What did you do?" His voice felt numb, as if he wasn't the one speaking the words. Rufio was slowly trying to stand up, trying to stagger away, and he grabbed the man's shoulders to keep him still, dropping his knife in the process. "Answer me!" He shouted the words, and for the first time, Rufio's dim brown eyes fully met Akatosh's searing, angry red ones, and they both saw the emotions buried within each other, Akatosh seeing overworking fear and guilt, his crazed anger being shown in exchange.

Rufio cried out, starting sobbing the hardest he could, wailing and weakly trying to escape Akatosh's grasp. "Let go! Let go of me, let go! Wretched demon! Someone, help me!" He screamed the words, but they both knew it would do no good. They were too far from the hatch to be heard, and certainly not through stone walls such as this room bore.

Akatosh's fingers tightened. He knew it was painful, judging by the way the man grunted in pain and choked on his own tears because of it. He was about to question him more, was about to demand answers, but that anger he was feeling, boiling in his gut, finally spilled over the top. Warmth pooled up in his chest and turned into burning heat at the tips of his fingers, and then Rufio was engulfed in the flames of his hands, screaming as he was flayed alive, screaming until he couldn't, choking on the smoke his own burning flesh made and collapsing to the ground in a heap of melted skin and ashes.

Akatosh stared. His hands, now cooled, pressed against his own chest. His legs trembled, knees wobbling, mouth gaping open and closing like a fish. He hadn't meant for it to get out of control like that, he hadn't- he hadn't, he hadn't-

But... wasn't he supposed to feel more remorse than this?

The world was starting to spin, as if he was a fixed point on the ground while everything else rotated and shook and wobbled. Akatosh was falling back, crying out, and when his knees finally gave away and his head hit the ground hard, his vision flickered out of his eyes and turned his sight dark.

* * *

 

Rain.

He felt it, he felt the little raindrops, falling on his skin. It wasn't the harshness of the storm before, but the gentleness of a sprinkling cloud or two. The air smelled earthy from a recent heavy shower, and the ground he was laid on, with dewed bladed grass, felt damp and made his skin all the more colder.

That was, until, he was lifted up, someone picking him up in his arms. Akatosh was in too much of a daze to properly react, not even opening his eyes to see who was doing this all, to see where fate was taking him. And then, he was laid onto a pile of blankets, and the rain stopped, the air suddenly feeling much warmer.

His eyes opened dimly, and were met by a pair of cooler, calmer, darker ones. "You're awake."

Akatosh could only stare in a heavy daze and blink a few times, trying to clear his fuzzy vision. He felt drained of energy, as if he would pass out if he were to close his eyes for the smallest moment, as if all the sleep in the world wouldn't restore his strength. He couldn't bring himself to move, and he simply closed his eyes again, letting himself fade out once more.

The next time he awoke, he still felt the same sensations, but the pittering-pattering sound of rain outside had stopped. Akatosh turned into the blankets, seeking their warmth, staring out ahead as he hid from the cold.

He had been laid down in a tent, and on top of that, a sleeping bag, with a nest full of heated blankets- most likely from a spell- cocooning him. It was late in the evening now, and it looked beautiful outside, where he had been moved to, the sky smeared in pink and orange hues. He could tell it was somewhere in central Cyrodiil, judging by the thick grouping of trees and the trickling of a river nearby, and just the overall area Akatosh was used to. He would guess he was somewhere near Cheydinhal, but he hoped that was wrong. It was quite a distance from that inn to this area, and whoever had carried him would have dealt with several days of an unconscious travel companion.

Akatosh was still in some sort of daze, and because of that, it took him a few moments to notice the dagger sitting by his side. And, along that dagger, his bag, his bag that had been stolen from him for quite some time. He reached out shakily with a single hand, going for the bag first, his other hand pushing him up into a sitting position. Akatosh opened the bag up and reached inside, and sure enough, he could tell that every single one of his possessions were in there. He set it in his lap, before slowly, his attention turned to the weapon that had been sat next to it.

It wasn't the same knife he had been wielding before. Instead, it was a gorgeous, glimmering ebony dagger, shimmering with its dark metal. Akatosh grasped it in his hand, looking at it closely, and finally, a someone spoke.

"Do you like it?"

He cried out in surprise, dropping the knife and nearly jumping to his feet, but he found he was too weak to do even that, and he shakily stayed sitting. The Breton looked behind himself slowly, only to be greeted with that familiar pair of dark eyes, with that same sly smile, Lucien Lachance leaned down next to him, having been watching this all without Akatosh noticing in the slightest. He didn't know how to feel about that, but seeing Lucien's face finally brought him to reality, and a wave of emotions came crashing into him, causing his eyes to fill to the brim with tears.

Lucien's smile faltered for a moment as he noticed the watery look he was receiving, before a delicate, gloved hand reached out, skimming its thumb under Akatosh's eyes and wiping away the gathering tears. "It's for you," he said, gently, his smile less sly, more faint. "The Blade of Woe. Think of it as another gift for the deed you have done, for you are now part of the family."

He choked a little on his words when he tried to say them all before his brain could catch up. Lucien didn't rush him, patiently waiting for him to catch up, and he picked the knife back from the ground and settled it back into Akatosh's hands. Because of this pause, Akatosh was better able to see Lucien. He was wearing a dark robe again, and looked better fitting in it than that strange armor he was wearing underneath, in Akatosh's opinion. The old robe that he had given Akatosh was lying amongst the blankets he was piled under, and it seemed like Lucien didn't have the intention of taking it back. "I... I am?"

A more genuine smile, and a nod of his head. "The slaying of Rufio was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. You have done your part, and now we welcome you to us." A considering pause, and then, a bigger smile. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

He felt the tears start to gather again, and his bottom lip trembled. Akatosh felt like a child, and maybe he was one, unable to keep back a silent sob. He didn't know whether he was crying out of happiness, or out of relief, or out of misery, of pain- but whatever it was, he was crying, and it stopped as another gloved hand cupped his cheek. Caressing his skin gently, he calmed Akatosh down, Lucien's touches gentle, his eyes even moreso. Was this what it felt like? To be cared for again?

"I don't?"

Lucien shook his head. "As a Speaker of the Black Hand, I directly oversee a particular group of family members. You will join that group, and fulfill any contracts given. You must now go to the city of Cheydinhal, to the abandoned house near the eastern wall. Enter the basement, and attempt to open the black door. You will be asked a question. Answer thusly: 'Sanguine, my Brother.' You will gain entrance to the Sanctuary. Once inside, speak with Ocheeva. Do you understand this all?"

Everything was said without pause, and it left his head swimming. The hand moved away from his cheek, combing through his hair. For a murderer, Lucien seemed to recognize his trauma, and was handling it well, keeping Akatosh calm enough to speak back and forth like how they were. "I- I d-don't- I-"

"Would you like me to repeat it?" He gulped, but nodded, and Lucien did so without skipping a beat, speaking slower this time in that low, calm voice of his. The worst part was that Akatosh didn't even know if he meant this all, or if this was simply an act for Lucien, just to get Akatosh to cooperate a bit more. This man was someone who could convince a person the sky was green with that silver tongue of his, even if that conversation was held outside. And Akatosh... was simply gullible.

He finally understood, repeating what was said over and over again until it was seared in his head in a way he wouldn't forget. Maybe that was why they were so close to Cheydinhal, after all. "You came to me? After I fainted?"

Lucien nodded. "The Dark Brotherhood knows of a great many things, and for that, I knew when the contract had been completed. It was a surprising sight to see that you had fallen asleep so close to your target. Had I not arrived sooner, it would have been suspicious that you were down there so long, but even the innkeeper had returned to his quarters at that time, and getting you out was of no difficulty. You wouldn't wake up for these past few days, so I merely kept you along with me."

Akatosh was quiet as he listened to this all. Maybe this wasn't an act, if he had kept such close care of Akatosh all this time. They were family now, after all, weren't they? Maybe it was just hard for him to believe anyone could care for him again after he had murdered Tar-Meena.

He didn't know what to say, and Lucien seemed to understand. "We must now take our leave of each other-"

As he started to get up, Lucien's hand was grabbed by shaking, slender fingers, fingers that grasped onto his wrist, that refused to let go. This Breton was so weak, and could be easily pried off, but Lucien didn't even try to shake him away, whether it was because of his shock at the action or not.

Akatosh still couldn't find the words he wanted, still couldn't form the sentences to speak. All he knew was that he didn't want this man to leave.

"I'll come back." Lucien spoke softly, arousing him from his thoughts. A cold pair of lips was pressed against his fingers, and Akatosh drew them away out of shock, staring up at the man as he clutched at his hand. "I'll come back and see you again."

And with that promise, he finally stood, stepping out of the tent. When Akatosh looked, he only saw the forest, as the man that had been with him moments before had disappeared without a single trace.

He looked down at his gift. The Blade of Woe winked at him with a history of dark promises buried in the ebony metal of the blade. He found himself picking it up again from where he had dropped it once more before, found himself grasping onto the handle. Akatosh was sick at himself. Not because he had killed Tar-Meena. Not because he had killed Rufio.

But because he was starting to not care anymore.

* * *

 

He stared at the door, and the door stared back at him.

It was dark and clammy and horribly silent, which made each of his footsteps one his way here ring out like bells. Broken barrels and cobwebs had made up most of the interior design going down into the abandoned house, but he had found what he was looking for when he had reached the basement. A blood splatter- old, dried, he could tell- was at his feet, and at the base of the door, as well.

As for the door itself, it was an awful thing, with a large skull glinting at him bearing a wicked smile. All skulls looked so happy, as if they hadn't truly realized they were dead yet, or maybe they had realized, and were happy to not be alive anymore. Whatever the reason, it was unsettling, and it would have scared him, it should have, but he didn't feel that much in touch with his emotions as of late.

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, the Blade of Woe strapped to his leg and Baurus's katana back on his belt. Lucien's cloak was open and tied around his neck, hood-up, and he looked darker than the shadows in it. A pale hand reached out towards the door. Below the skull was a depiction of a woman, bearing a knife and holding a child in her arms, with four other smaller people- who he could only assume were children, too- standing at the end of her knife. Above the skull was a hand. Akatosh didn't know if it mattered, but he pressed his hand against the imprinted larger hand, and on cue, a voice rumbled deep from within the door.

He was expecting it, but it still made him jump. " _What... is the color... of night_?"

To this, he knew the answer, remembered it just as Lucien had said. "Sanguine, my brother."

The door rumbled, clicking in and out of place, and slowly, it creaked open, revealing a dark chamber behind its body. As Akatosh stepped in, the voice came again, rumbling over his head as the door closed itself.

" _Welcome home_."


End file.
